


In-Between Days

by strawbebbyy



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, Stanley Uris Lives, the character death is not permanent and its just whats already in canon, the violence is also just whats already in canon and its only in the very beginning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-01-15 04:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 36,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawbebbyy/pseuds/strawbebbyy
Summary: One hospital stay after the final showdown with It, Richie is renting an antiquated little house in Derry where he gets to play nurse to Eddie for six weeks. Easy-peasy. Make sure Eddie doesn't hurt himself while recovering, and then it's back to his normal life.Except it's not that easy, of course, because even after 27 years Richie's feelings haven't changed. Besides, he's not sure he wants to return to his old life, anyway. Not if it means he and Eddie go back to living on opposite sides of the country and never see each other.But it's fine, really. He can get through the next month and a half without losing his mind. He can, dammit.He absolutely cannot.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you like a song or two for this chapter? Sure ya would! Mother Mother - Arms Tonite, Keaton Henson - You

Richie stares as Pennywise’s arm sinks into Eddie, going clear through him like the world’s worst kebab. The clown (spider?) laughs and lifts that arm, flinging it and Eddie wildly through the air. Eddie lands on the cave floor with a painful _ thud. _

Richie has to be dragged out of the sewers by his friends, and if he was a little more aware of himself he might be embarrassed about the way he’s acting. When they all surround him in the water of the Barrens, he thinks they know his secret. They must at least have some idea, right? And still he feels safe with them.

It’s that safe, quiet acceptance that gives him the last little push he needed to carve those initials into the Kissing Bridge. The ones he’d put there as a kid have faded a bit over the last 27 years as the wood of the bridge has weathered away. He carves them in again, deeper than they were, and he thinks of Stanley’s letter. _ Be proud. _And then he thinks of Eddie, and so many warring emotions erupt within him that he’s helpless to do much besides cry - cry for the years his friends lost, for the kids lost to It, for Stanley and his wife, for Eddie, for the fact that he never got to tell Eddie what he should have.

He cries, and then he leaves Derry for the final time. Good riddance, adios, it was (not) fun while it lasted.

And now, rather suddenly, he finds he’s not in his car, driving to the airport. Instead he feels like he’s freefalling through limbo. There's a moment, caught briefly between the void of the deadlights' influence and reality, where he feels like he's not alone. But he can't stop and dissect the feeling or the moment because then he's slamming back into consciousness so abruptly he's not sure what's got him more dazed: that or the rock he just whacked his head against. For just a split second one of the rock formations on the cave ceiling looks the tiniest bit like a turtle, but everything is fuzzy and he can't be sure of what he's seeing.

He's incredibly disoriented, but through the haze he sees a scene that turns his blood to ice - a scene he thought he’d already watched happen. Eddie's face swims into his blurry vision, rambling excitedly and back-lit by the blue glow of the cave. In another time or place, it might even be pretty, the way the otherworldly light makes a halo around his form. However, in the here and now, Richie can't feel his body, but he knows what's coming in just a few seconds and it is the least pretty thing he could imagine. He can't let it happen. He knows what's coming, he _ knows _, and his foggy mind is screaming for him to do something, but he's still recovering from dropping like a sack of potatoes from the deadlights and his body won't move.

There's a prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like someone's standing very closely behind him (despite the fact that he's laying on the rough, dirty cave floor). As if being given a nudge to get him going, he suddenly manages to lift his arms up, hooking them around Eddie's body.

"We have to move." His voice is remarkably steady as he tries to pull Eddie away from the place they're currently laying.

"What?" Eddie's eyebrows furrow, and despite Richie's best efforts he only moves slightly. "What are you - "

And there it is, the claw Richie knew was coming. Even though he's seen the shocked look on Eddie's face before, it's worse this time. It’s worse because this was supposed to be Richie’s chance to change things. This was supposed to be his opportunity to save Eddie and it doesn’t seem like it made a damn difference because Eddie’s still been stuck through with Pennywise’s arm.

It's worse, but it's not the _ same _. Blood has started trickling from Eddie's mouth, inky black in the dim cave, but Richie can see the claw isn't protruding from the center of his chest like it had in his deadlights vision. No, instead it's lower and off to the left a bit, a few inches to one side of his bellybutton. Richie's weak tugging must have moved him just enough that It missed Its mark.

Is that survivable? Hell if Richie knows. But also hell if he's gonna let Pennywise fling Eddie around like he'd seen in the deadlights. The strength has returned to his body, and he hugs Eddie close to himself - moving him away from the claw that has impaled him before the clown gets the chance to lift him into the air. He feels blood soaking his shirt, warm and thick, and ignores it as he rolls the both of them to the left.

They can't stop moving, they're still out in the open. Richie scrambles to his feet and, grabbing Eddie by the armpits, heaves Eddie up into something close enough to standing. They stumble to a nearby outcropping of rock, hunkering down beneath it.

"Richie?" Eddie's voice sounds so small, but Richie tries not to linger on it as he shrugs out of his jacket and presses it to the wound. He stares intently at the blood soaking into the fabric beneath his fingers because he can’t look at Eddie’s face right now. Eddie's hand comes down, laying over Richie's atop the jacket, and Richie finally brings himself to look Eddie in the eye. Eddie opens his mouth as if to speak, but whatever he was going to say gets cut off by the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps.

"Richie? Eddie?" It's Bev, followed closely by the other Losers. "Are you okay?" She kneels down on Eddie's side, opposite where Richie is kneeling, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. The others are surrounding them now, too.

"I really thought I got It." Eddie frowns, closing his eyes.

"I think you almost did," Mike says, glancing at where Pennywise is starting to pull Itself off of the stone structure It had fallen onto.

"That's the second time I've almost killed It, then. You guys need to catch up." He laughs weakly, and although the faint breathy sound makes Richie feel sort of sick, he thinks maybe Eddie's doing okay if he's feeling well enough to laugh. It's a stupid little thing to cling to - especially since in the deadlights, Eddie's last words were a joke - but Richie clings to it nontheless.

Of course it's Bill who thinks to ask for elaboration on this little tidbit. "You a-almost killed It before?"

"Yeah. When I saw It as the leper. I choked It - It felt so weak. So small. I almost did it."

Richie knows exactly what's coming after that revelation, right down to bullying the bastard clown to death. It plays out essentially the same - they get intercepted on the way to the passageway, and they take to calling Pennywise names to make him small.

Richie knows they need him to help kill It. They're all surrounding It now, shouting, and he really should go. Richie also knows, though, that in the deadlights he left Eddie alone so he could help, and that's when Eddie died. He died by himself, while all of his friends were off calling Pennywise names. Not that Richie being near him would really make any difference in whether Eddie lives or dies, but Richie is still frozen to the solid stone floor, unable to make himself move.

"Rich," Eddie says quietly, squeezing Richie's hand where he's impulsively still holding the jacket over Eddie's stomach. "Go." He seems to be losing strength, and that makes Richie's chest feel terribly tight.

He wants to insist on staying put, but he knows they truly do need him. Besides, despite the strained sound of Eddie’s voice and the overall weakness in his posture, there's a stern resolve in his eyes that Richie can't argue with

"You better not die while I'm gone, Eds." He scowls, and wonders if Eddie can see how nervous he is. If he can, he doesn't say anything, even as Richie gets to his feet and leaves to join their friends.

It’s easy now that Pennywise is small and non threatening. Still, Richie pulls off Its leg - the leg that had impaled Eddie - just because. He stares as the remnants of Pennywise’s heart, previously squashed and oozing between their fingers, begin to float around them like some hellish kind of snow.That’s nasty as hell, but he can’t really focus on that because as soon as they can be sure the clown is dead, Richie’s number one priority is Eddie. He rushes off of the structure in the center of the room, ducking around the rock Eddie is laying behind. Eddie’s eyes are closed, and he doesn't react as Richie taps his cheek. The bandage is rough beneath Richie’s palm, but the contact doesn’t make Eddie stir even a bit.

"Eds?" He kneels down beside the other man, hands shaking more than he'd ever admit. This can't be happening. He saw how things played out in the deadlights and he did his best to change it. Eddie can't die now. He _ can't. _

"Rich," comes Bev's voice, soft despite the way it's trembling. "Richie, honey, he's dead." The way her voice breaks feels like a personal attack on Richie's own emotions. He can barely hold it together as is, if they start crying he’s surely going to break down, too.

"No, he's just hurt," Richie says and isn't sure if he's trying to convince them or himself. Maybe he's just trying to will it to be true, to speak it into existence.

He reaches forward to pull Eddie close to him, doing a very bad job ignoring the panic and despair that has blossomed in his chest. As he does, though, Eddie’s still form suddenly draws one shuddering breath and then his breathing falls into a slow, labored pattern. His eyelids flutter, but never fully open. Startled, Richie places his fingers on Eddie's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. When he finds it, slow and weak, he almost thinks he could sob. He pointedly does not think about how absolutely still Eddie had been only seconds before; how sure Richie is that he just watched Eddie come back to life in front of him. He doesn’t understand what just happened, but he doesn’t need to. From the corner of his eye, though, he thinks the smearing of blood on his hands looks vaguely like a turtle.

It's a group effort to drag Eddie out of the cave system - it begins with Richie heaving him up into a fireman’s carry, and then Bill taking a turn when Richie can’t carry him any more. Trying to climb out of the well is another problem all together, but eventually, with Ben’s help, they do maneuver him up the well. They emerge from the house, Ben supporting half of Eddie’s weight and Richie supporting the other half.

It's a near thing: they stumble out the front door and down the porch steps only seconds before the house crumbles behind them.

Ben and Richie gently lay Eddie in the street, and Richie checks that he's still breathing. The answer is yes, but it's faint and who really knows for how much longer? Richie presses hard on his balled up, blood-soaked jacket, even though he's not sure it's making a difference. If it was slowing the bleeding at all, even while they were still back in the cave, would it be as soaked through as it is? He has a sinking feeling that it’s not doing any good, and can feel panic rising in his throat, sour and acrid. He thought it was helping, but if it hasn’t been… that means Eddie’s been bleeding pretty much freely for much longer than is realistically safe. Something inside of him whispers that they’ve gotten all the help they can at this point - it’s a miracle Eddie’s alive right now, and Richie’s certain there was a moment in Its lair that he _ wasn’t _. They’re not going to get another miracle on top of the one that got them this far - if Eddie doesn’t make it to the hospital, there won’t be another chance.

They all pile into someone’s car - Richie doesn’t know whose car it is they’d all taken to the house, and he still doesn’t know whose car it is. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. Beverly ends up with the keys, and she tears away from the ruins of the house like a racer tearing away from the starting line. The town has been suspiciously empty since the festival ended and there's nobody else on the roads, which is probably for the best because Beverly drives like a bat out of hell, speeding down the streets and towards the Derry Home Hospital. Crammed in the back seat, Mike, Bill, and Richie are all supporting Eddie’s body as best they can, trying to keep him from moving too much when the car hits a bump or takes a turn way too fast.

Bev doesn't park, instead pulling up to the front of the building and letting everyone else clamber out. The back seat of the car looks like a crime scene, blood smeared all across the leather.

She actually parks after everyone else goes in, and by the time she comes inside the hospital staff has already whisked Eddie away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is done, I'm just editing it now, so hopefully updates will be pretty quick! Also, expect me to add a song or two for each chapter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is uhh really long, so I apologize in advance! I just really wanted to get all the hospital stuff done so we can get into the good stuff.
> 
> The Night We Met - Lord Huron, Forest Fire - Brighton

The hospital is relatively empty, just as the rest of the town has been. The Losers have claimed a large number of the available chairs in the waiting room, all looking worse for wear - covered in sweat and sewer grime and blood. Bev takes a seat between Ben and Richie, giving Richie's shoulder a reassuring squeeze that he pretends not to notice.

"They took him back for emergency sur-sur-surgery," Bill almost whispers. "They d-didn't say much else."

There's a long period of silence, filled only by the ambient sounds of the hospital. Nurses talking quietly, shoes squeaking on the polished floors, doors opening and closing gently. It’s unnerving, if Richie’s honest. He wishes someone would say something, because the quiet is driving him nuts. For once, he doesn’t even have a joke to cut through the tension. Running his mouth is a gift of his, but right now it’s not doing him much good.

Finally Bill speaks up, calm and surprisingly composed, all things considered. Certainly more composed than Richie feels, although he supposes that’s just Bill - that determined, unshakable nature is part of why they all yielded so easily to him as their unofficial leader when they were kids.

"We should go get c-cleaned up." Four different gazes come to land on him, all with different emotions hidden behind them. "He's gonna be in surgery for a while. W-w-we should go now, while he’s still in surgery a-and we know he won’t wake up while we’re gone."

"What if something goes wrong?" Richie hates how desperate he sounds, but the truth is that he doesn't want to leave. Not that he’d ever actually outright say that, but he thinks everyone can tell anyway, if the way they all look knowingly at him is any indicator. It makes his skin crawl. _ What else do they know? _

"We d-don’t get to make medical decisions for him. If t-th-there's a problem, how to handle it is his wife's call, not ours."

Richie frowns, and then he scowls, and he knows Bill is right. They're filthy. Eddie's going to be in surgery for a while, not even considering the anesthesia he'll be under. And then there's his wife… if something goes wrong, it really _ isn't _up to them how to proceed. There’s nothing in his favor here, and so he begrudgingly follows his friends outside. He does notice, with some relief, that Mike slips the nurse at the front desk his phone number and asks, in a whisper, that she call if anything happens while they’re gone. Richie doesn’t know if the nurse actually will call - is she even allowed to? But it brings him a little peace of mind, anyway.

Ordinarily, the Losers might make a fuss about crawling into the bloody, grimey seats of the car. But it’s their only transportation and they’re all just about as disgusting as they could get anyway. It still makes Richie’s stomach twist, seeing Eddie’s blood stained across the seats and smeared in handprints on the door handle. He looks at his own hands as he settles in the back seat, and knows those are his handprints on the door. Eddie’s blood on his hands is dry now, cracking and flaking where his knuckles bend.

It doesn’t occur to him until much, much later that they hadn’t told the hospital staff about Eddie’s wife - if there had been a problem, they wouldn’t have known to call her because they didn’t know she existed.

When they get to the Townhouse, there’s still no staff in sight. Richie eyes the dark stain on the carpet outside Eddie’s room - more of his blood in a place it shouldn’t be. Although, the idea of Eddie pulling a knife out of his face and stabbing Bowers with it makes him smile a bit. Even little Eddie could have his moments, huh? Moments like saving Richie from the deadlights.

He removes his glasses, running his finger over the cracks in the lens. His clothes are a lost cause, but despite that he still holds his filthy shirt out in front of himself for a moment and stares at the deep, rust colored stain on the front. Then he tosses the article to the floor, deciding he’s seen far too much of Eddie’s blood in the last 24 hours.

He stands under the shower spray until the water runs cold, scrubbing his skin so hard that it stings. The water pools at his feet and spirals down the drain, red and then pale pink and then finally clear, and still he scrubs an extra time to be sure. There’s even blood caked under his fingernails, which is a disgusting little detail he’d failed to notice before, and he takes care to clean all that away, too. And if, after his skin has been scrubbed raw and the water’s gone cold, he sits in the shower and cries for a moment, well… that’s nobody’s business but his.

As he’s shutting off the water he’s startled by someone knocking on his door, followed by Ben’s voice, muffled by the wood.

“Rich? You almost ready to head back to the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah,” He shouts back. “Give a man thirty seconds to put some pants on, at least, would ya, Haystack?”

When he comes out of his room, he finds everyone else is already downstairs waiting for him, all looking fresh and clean. He also notices he’s not the only one with puffy, red-rimmed eyes from crying. They drive Bill’s rental back to the hospital, because it’s the only car that’s at the Townhouse and isn’t covered in grey water and blood. Most of the group’s cars had been left at the library when they met there, but Bill’s got left at the Townhouse since he ended up using Silver to get around most of the time.

Mike asks the nurse if there’s been any updates on Eddie’s condition. He’s still in surgery, she tells them. However, the surgery seems to be going well and he should be done in just an hour or so. And thus, the Losers resign themselves to sitting quietly in the waiting room.

An hour and thirteen minutes later - not that Richie’s been counting, watching the hands of the clock like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen - a nurse steps into the waiting room. He speaks in a pleasant, hushed voice to the Losers, who’ve gathered around him.

“Mr. Kaspbrak is out of surgery and is being moved to a recovery room right now. He will be in recovery for at least an hour, likely longer than that depending on how quickly he wakes from the anesthesia. However, for now, his condition appears to be stable.”

“And ca-ca-can we see him?” Bill asks.

“Yes, visitors are allowed in the recovery room. No more than two at a time, though.”

“We understand. Thank you.” Ben, ever polite, offers a little smile to the nurse, who asks if they have any more questions before disappearing down a hallway.

And then everyone’s staring at Richie.

“Richie, would you like to go see him first?” Bev asks, hand coming to rest comfortingly on his arm. He feels like he might squirm right out of his skin, he hates the way they’re all looking at him. _ Do they know? They must know, right? Why else would they all be staring at me like that? _

“Two of us can go at once, right? Does anyone else want to come?” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.

“No, I think Beverly and I are going to find something to eat. Surely they’ve got vending machines around here, right?” Ben shakes his head.

“I think there’s a cafe on the bottom floor, by the gift shop,” Mike pipes up. Then he adds, “Rich, you go ahead.”

In his pockets, Richie’s palms start to sweat. He doesn’t know what’s worse: the possibility that they know his secret, or the idea of going into that recovery room and seeing Eddie all broken and small-looking in the bed. He’s not sure he can face either.

“Actually, yeah, I’ll come with you, Richie,” Bill says, as if he can see how terrified Richie is to go in there. Isn't that just like Bill? Richie is glad for the offer. He’d never admit it, but if he’d had to go in alone he doesn’t think he could have made himself do it.

Bill is the one who talks to the lady working reception.

“We’re here to see Edward Kaspbrak.”

She makes them sign in, recording their name and the time in a book, before passing them each a name tag sticker that reads “VISITOR.”

“Room 609.Take a right when you get off the elevator. It’s just past the nurse’s station.”

Bill thanks her and they board the elevator, Richie pressing the button for the sixth floor and hoping Bill doesn’t notice how his hands shake. The pair makes their way down the hall, past the nurse’s station that is currently empty. It’s eerily quiet, and Richie feels like every step he takes echoes terribly in the pristine white halls.

They stop outside room 609. Bill doesn’t make a move to go inside, and he doesn’t make any effort to hurry Richie along. He just stands back a few steps and waits while Richie prepares himself. Richie has to psych himself up before finally he can bring himself to knock gently on the sturdy door. There is no answer, of course, and Richie feels just a little stupid that some tiny part of him had hoped he’d hear Eddie’s voice on the other side. He turns the handle and peeks his head in.

Eddie looks small in the bed, laying on his back with the blanket pulled up to his hips. He looks incredibly pale, and Richie wonders how much of that is because he almost bled to death and how much is just because the fluorescent lights tend to make everyone look a little washed out. He’s hooked up to several machines, and has a few IV drips in his right arm. The bandage on his cheek has been replaced with a much more professionally done one, and Richie can only assume they stitched that particular wound shut. He’s breathing, stronger now than he had been at the Neibolt house, but still shallowly enough to make Richie feel like his own lungs are being crushed. He doesn’t look like himself, appearing tiny and helpless and utterly alien compared to the man Richie knows.

“Richie, are you okay?” Bill practically whispers, stepping in just behind Richie. “It’s jarring to s-s-see him like this, huh?”

Richie nods. “Dunno why, but this really makes it sink in. You’d think it would really hit me as I was watching him fucking bleed out, but nah. It hits me _ now _.”

“Yeah, I g-get it.” They both step fully inside, Bill closing the door behind them as quietly as he can.

Bill talks to Eddie for a moment in a hushed voice, and Richie tries not to listen in, doing his best to give Bill some privacy. Instead he thinks that this is almost poetic, in a fucked up way. It’s right that it would be him and Bill to come back and see Eddie first - the three of them, along with Stan, were the original Loser’s Club, after all.

And then he thinks about Stanley and feels tears burning his eyes. He saw so much in the deadlights that he could use to help Eddie, but he didn’t see a damn thing about Stan. There was nothing he could have done for Stanley. Stan deserves to be alive just as much as the rest of them. It’s not fair - they never got to know Stan all grown up. And Stan never got to know them as they are, either. To them, Stanley only ever got to be the the put-together, curly-haired kid with his bird book - and to Stan, Richie was never more than the gangly, loudmouthed boy behind bug-eyed glasses. He smiles bitterly at that, because he’s _ still _a loudmouthed jerk in bug-eyed glasses. The only difference is his impressions have gotten better. Maybe they’re good enough now that Stan might even have laughed at them instead of rolling his eyes like he did as a kid.

In some ways, Richie knows none of them have changed _ that _much since they were thirteen. If they’d gotten to know Stan all grown up, they surely would have found he was every bit still the kid they knew back then. That doesn’t make him feel any better, though. Distantly, he wonders how Stan’s wife is handling his passing; he doesn’t know her, but he hopes she’s doing alright.

Bill’s finished saying whatever it is he needed to say to Eddie - not that Eddie can hear him anyway - and he turns to Richie.

“I think I’m gonna go find Ben a-and Bev in the cafe now.”

“Sure thing, Bill.” Richie puts on a cheerful act. Bill claps him on the shoulder as he leaves. The door clicks shut, loud in the quiet room, and then Richie’s alone in the room with a very unresponsive Eddie.

He sits in a chair near the hospital bed, taking his friend’s hand into his own tentatively.

“You should be proud of yourself, Eds,” he whispers, feeling dumb for talking to the motionless figure on the bed. “I mean, you almost killed that clown _ twice _. That’s two more times than I did. But I guess it’s fair, right? I mean I’m like two times as tall as you. You get two times the clown kills and I get two times the height.”

But Eddie doesn’t react to the stupid jab at his height - Richie’s comment is met with silence instead of the _ “Fuck you, dude, I’m 5’9,” _ that he’s come to expect. The silence stretches on, curling around Richie and suffocating him like a thick smoke. He lets it hang there until he figures he’s had enough time and he should give someone else a chance to visit.

Mike is the only Loser in the waiting room when he returns, and so Mike is the next to go to the room. Richie sits and stares at the wall and tries desperately not to think. Beverly and Ben come back soon after, stepping off the elevator and talking quietly between themselves. They’re smiling and laughing a little, and seeing them makes Richie feel like someone reached into his chest and squeezed a fist around his heart. They’re going to get their happy ending, he’d bet money on it. And he… even if Eddie makes it through this… Richie would have to admit how he feels. And even if both those things happen, there’s no way Eddie feels the same way about him. Richie doesn’t get a happy ending, no matter how you slice it, and seeing Ben and Bev getting theirs makes him jealous.

He feels guilty as soon as he thinks that, though. He’s happy for them - they’re his friends, and they deserve to be happy. He knows they want him to be happy, too. It’s not like their happiness is somehow an attack on Richie. And besides, it’s shitty of him to think his happy ending has to mean Eddie loves him. Eddie just making it out of this alive would be enough.

He goes back to trying very hard not to think. Mike comes back to the waiting room. Ben and Bev go to see Eddie. Bill steps off the elevator, carrying a styrofoam cup from the cafe downstairs. Richie stares at the television on the wall, playing some news broadcast. The volume is muted and there’s no subtitles, not that he gives a shit what’s being said anyway.

When Bev and Ben plop back into chairs in the waiting room, Richie decides he’ll go see Eddie again - he doesn’t want Eddie to be alone when he wakes up, he tells the other Losers, and that’s not a lie. But at the same time, as much as he hates seeing Eddie in the stupid hospital bed, hooked up to all those machines and IV bags, he feels even more ansty sitting here in the waiting room.

So he sits in the chair near Eddie’s bed. He wastes time on his phone, ignoring messages from his tour manager about the dates he’s surely missed. He thinks about the lives his friends have been leading for the past 27 years. Bill has a wife and a successful career he’ll surely want to return to soon. Ben also has found success in his career, and now he’s got Bev. Bev has her fashion line and a marriage, although that last one’s probably on it’s way out. Richie can’t imagine either of them will be complacent to sit around Derry for too long. Mike hasn’t left this fucked up town his whole life, has he? He grew up here, and he didn’t leave like the rest of them. If anyone deserves to get out of this place as soon as possible, it’s Mike. Richie thinks poor Mikey must be going stir-crazy by now. Eddie’s got a wife, too, even if she’s an oedipal nightmare. He himself has a job he can’t very well leave on hold indefinitely. After this they’ll all go their own separate ways, and that makes Richie feel almost just as scared as he’d felt when he first got Mike’s phone call. Will they forget this time, too?

He dozes off while he ponders that question, the chaos of the last two days finally catching up to him. In his dreams he’s being dragged out of the Derry sewers, leaving Eddie’s body behind despite the way it makes his chest ache.

Richie is awakened by a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Rich?” Beverly says, and he cracks his bleary eyes open to peer at her. He yawns and shifts, rubbing a hand down his face. His neck is stiff from sleeping in a weird position and his back hurts like a bitch. He is _ way _too old to be falling asleep in chairs like this.

“What time is it?” He slurs, digging his phone from his pocket. Shit, he’s been asleep for an hour.

“Sorry to wake you.” Bev takes a step back from him. “But you’ve been back here for a while and we were a little worried. Have you had anything to eat since the chinese restaurant?”

He pauses for a moment, thinking about it. Has he eaten since then? After the dinner they were busy getting their tokens, and then they were fighting It, and now they’re here. No, he hasn’t eaten since the reunion dinner almost two days ago now, and once he realizes that he becomes aware of just how hungry he is.

Bev goes with him to the cafe, which is just as unimpressive as one might expect of what’s essentially a cafeteria in a hospital. Everything is overpriced and looks nasty, but he has a sandwich and a cup of coffee anyway, chatting with Bev as he eats.

“So, you and Ben, huh?” He raises his eyebrows at her.

“Yeah,” she smiles. “I’d say ‘who could’ve seen it coming’ if I didn’t think you’d all been practically betting on when it would finally happen.”

“Hey, nobody was placing any bets. But if we had been, I’d have lost because I definitely thought it was gonna happen after he laid one on you to wake you up from the deadlights that summer.”

Bev laughs, and the sound lifts Richie’s spirits a bit. It’s good to just talk for a while, not about a killer clown or their memories they’re still recovering, but about mundane sorts of things.

“He and I are leaving Derry together. Not now, of course, but after Eddie’s out of the hospital.”

“Moving in with another man while you’re still married? My, my, my, miss Marsh!”

“It’s not like that, Richie, and you know it! I can’t go back to living with Tom. So I’m going to live with Ben while I figure out the divorce.” She frowns now, staring forlornly at her own cup of coffee. “I’d like to say the divorce will be easy, but I know better than that. Tom won’t make it easy, and since he’s so involved in the company, I’m sure it’s going to be messy and frankly, more public than I’d like. The two heads of a huge brand don’t get a divorce and it not go public, right?” She laughs bitterly.

“Well, even if this is bad for business, you have a reputation now. People know who you are. Things’ll work out.”

“Thanks, Richie.” She smiles brightly at him.

“Hey, how long do you think he’ll be stuck in here, anyway?”

“Huh? Oh, Eddie? I don’t know. Probably only a few days, if things go well. I’m worried, though. Do you think he’ll be able to make the trip back to New York?”

“No.” Richie almost laughs at that. “You think he’s going to be anything less than neurotic about his recovery? No way he’s making that trip, even if it’s totally safe to travel while recovering from major surgery - which, for the record, I don’t think it is.”

“So someone will probably have to stay and take care of him, huh? He can’t be left alone, he’ll tear his stitches trying to do something stupid like vaccuum the floor.”

She’s right. He’ll need help in the next few weeks - hell, anyone recovering from something like this would. He does notice, though, that neither of them mentions having Eddie’s wife make the trip out here to care for him.

“I’ll stay.” Richie says before he even has a chance to think about it. “If he wants me to, of course. I’ll probably have to miss some more tour dates but shit’s already hit the fan with the touring company anyway. What’s a few more missed dates?”

“That’s really sweet of you, Rich.” Bev says warmly, but she doesn’t necessarily seem shocked.

After he eats, he returns to Eddie’s room. Ben’s there when he steps inside, which takes him by surprise for a moment.

“I figured I’d hang out while you were gone.” Ben says. “I knew you didn’t want him to be alone when he woke up, so…”

“Haystack, you don’t have to explain why you’re here. He’s your friend, too, man.” Richie’s touched anyway, that Ben remembered he was worried about Eddie waking up alone and sat here in Richie’s stead.

“Did you want me to leave?” He asks, taking a step towards the door.

“Nah, don’t let me run you off. Actually, I wanted to say thanks. For, y’know, helping me get Eds outta that fucking sewer.”

“Yeah, of course. What, did you think we were just going to leave him down there?” Ben smiles, but it’s a hollow thing that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Richie doesn’t say it, but he did think they were going to leave him. The vision he saw in the deadlights… if Richie hadn’t moved them just in time, if Eddie had died down there… yeah, they _ would’ve _left him.

Ben reaches over and pats Richie’s arm, hand lingering.

“He’s gonna be alright, you know.” He says softly, and his eyes are so kind and understanding that Richie almost can’t take it. He’s reminded that Ben has been in love with Beverly since they were thirteen. If anyone understands how Richie feels even a bit, it’s Ben. Gentle, sweet Ben who is looking at him so knowingly and yet with no judgement at all.

Richie thinks he might be able to tell Ben in this moment - to admit it for the first time in his life, except for the carving on the Kissing Bridge, that he’s in love with Eddie. Ben might not get it, exactly, because he could never really understand how Richie’s feelings tie in so neatly with his secret, but he would understand the important things - he’d understand the emotions at the core of the matter. He knows what it’s like to be in love with someone, to love them in the years where you don’t even remember them; he knows what it’s like to love someone for so long and to think you’d lost them, whether to another person, or to the deadlights, or just to their own mortality. And he knows Ben wouldn’t think any less of him.

Then he realizes that maybe it doesn’t matter anyway, because he’s certain Ben already knows. The idea makes his palms itch but it doesn’t give him the stomach-turning fear he’d expected.

“Yeah,” He says, and Ben drops his hand.

And then Ben leaves, even though Richie already told him he shouldn’t feel like he has to.

It’s not long after that, as Richie’s sitting in the chair in the room and debating about finally calling his tour manager after two days of radio silence, that one Eddie Kaspbrak finally stirs. Richie’s staring at his phone, thumb hovering over his manager’s contact as he wars with himself about whether to make the call or not, when he hears a little shuffling noise. He glances up, scanning Eddie’s figure in the bed, and then he sees it: a little shift of his hand, fingers clenching and unclenching in the sheets.

“Eddie?” He asks, forgetting all about his stupid tour. “Eds?”

There’s a larger movement this time, his whole arm shifting as his fingers curl into a loose fist and then relax once more. His eyelids flutter.

He groans and his eyes actually slide open this time. “Richie?” His voice is rough and scratchy.

Richie, for his part, puts on his best Doctor Frankenstein voice.

“It’s aliiiivvee!”

“Shut the fuck up, dude, I have a headache.” His eyes slip shut again and one hand comes up to rub his temple, albeit a little clumsily. His words are a bit slurred.

“Oh, shit, I should probably get the nurse or something, huh?”

“You think?” Eddie snarks, and Richie couldn’t possibly put into words how good it is to hear that. He always liked getting on Eddie’s nerves anyway, and the sass is a comforting thing.

From there, it’s a lot of hubbub. Richie tells the nurse and the other Losers that Eddie’s awake, and while the others want to see him, the hospital staff is currently moving him from the recovery room to a regular room. Once that’s done and he’s settled in his new room, the whole Losers Club is allowed in to see him - no restriction on how many visitors can be in a general room.

“Hey, guys.” Eddie waves to them from the bed, eyeing the group of them in the doorway. “What’d I miss?”

Everyone crowds around his bed. Bev leans down to hug him, mindful of his sore side.

“Not much,” Bill grins, nudging him gently. “We just called Pennywise names until It died.”

Eddie laughs, voice a little painful sounding, before wincing and holding a hand over the place he’d been stabbed.

“Don’t make me laugh, it hurts,” he says, smiling anyway.

“So how are you feeling?” Mike asks sincerely.

“Like I got stabbed through the guts by a killer clown.” Then, more seriously, he adds, “Tired and sore.”

Bev sits cautiously on the edge of his bed. “How much do you remember?”

“Not much. I threw that fire poker at It and It dropped Richie. I thought I’d gotten It, but obviously I was wrong.” He pauses, brows furrowed as if thinking very hard about something. “Rich, you were acting weird after It dropped you. Did you know something was up?”

“Huh? No.” Richie lies through his teeth. “No, I just… just saw It behind you. You had your back to It, but I could see It wasn’t dead.” Eddie doesn’t look like he believes him.

“I remember telling Richie to go help kill It. But that’s all. How the hell did you get me outta there, anyway? Didn’t we have to climb a rope down into the well?”

“Ben had to get you out of there, climbing the rope and carrying you like he was a pack mule or some shit. I don’t know how he did it.” Richie blurts, and Eddie laughs before schooling his face into a scowl.

“I said don’t make me laugh, asshole!”

“Sorry,” Richie says, but he only kind of means it.

They all chat for a while, tensions visibly leaving the Losers as they see Eddie there, alive and awake. There’s been so much stress the last few days, and with Eddie seemingly on his way to making a full recovery, it feels like now they can all move past the shitshow that this visit to Derry has been. 

It’s been maybe two hours since Eddie woke up. Everyone else is playfully giving Bill shit for the ending of his latest book when there’s a soft rap at the door. A nurse pokes her head inside, smiling, before stepping fully into the room.

“Sorry to interrupt.” She turns to Eddie. “How are you doing?”

“About as well as I can, I guess.”

“Good.” She comes to the edge of the bed. “If you’re not in too much pain right now, maybe we should try walking a bit.”

Richie thinks the color drains from everyone’s faces in the same instant.

The nurse must see how every other person in the room gawks at her. “I know it probably seems a bit too soon, but walking is an important part of your recovery.”

She helps Eddie out of his bed, supporting him on one side as the two pace around the room. It’s slow going. By the time the nurse is lowering him back into the bed, Eddie’s teeth are clenched, his face is pale, and there’s sweat beading on his forehead. The whole thing is very hard to watch.

It’s clear as the evening wears on that Eddie’s starting to feel worse, and being made to walk really seems to have taken a lot out of him. He seems very tired, and it’s getting late anyway. Before long, everyone else is on their way out, all leaving at once because they’d all come together in Bill’s car and nobody really wants to be stuck walking all the way back to the Townhouse.

“You comin’ Richie?” Mike asks, as everyone else says goodnight to Eddie.

“Oh, uh.” He glances at Eddie, who’s doing his best to hug Bill without sitting up. Over Bill’s shoulder, Eddie makes eye contact.

“If you want to stay, Rich, you can.” He says, before turning to say goodnight to Beverly. Richie isn’t sure that he likes how easily Eddie can tell he wants to stay.

“Yeah, I’m gonna hang out for a while longer.” Richie says to Mike, only a little embarrassed about it. The last two days have been hellish, he’s beyond giving a fuck. His friends can know he wants to stay with Eddie, that’s something he frankly doesn’t have it in him to care much about.

The other Losers linger long enough to promise they’ll be back tomorrow morning, and then they all head out.

Eddie is laying with his eyes shut, brows drawn together. He looks tense, and Richie settles in the chair he’s been occupying for most of the day, reaching over to take Eddie’s hand in his own. Idly, he rubs his thumb across his friend’s knuckles. It’s quiet for a while, before Eddie sighs.

“I don’t really believe what you said about what happened in the cave.”

“What? Why would I lie to you, Spaghetti?”

“Don’t call me that. And I don’t know. But I guess you saved me either way, huh?”

“Nah, I didn’t do anything.”

Eddie’s eyes open now, pinning Richie with a sharp gaze.

“Don’t be humble. Do you know how close that clown’s arm was to going through my chest? If you hadn’t pulled me out of the way, it would have right through my spine and hit my heart or lungs. I’d probably have ended up paralyzed, if not just dead.” 

“Oh, damn, really?” Richie pretends he didn’t know exactly what would have happened if they hadn’t moved.

“Yeah, but instead I just got stabbed in the guts. And somehow the damn clown didn’t even actually tear any of my intestines.”

“Hey, intestines are slippery little bastards. Bet they just slid right past that clown claw.”

“Dude, that’s fucking weird. Don’t say shit like that.”

“Sorry, Eds, won’t happen again.”

“Yeah, don’t get my hopes up.” He offers a sleepy little smile, and then has to stifle a yawn.

It goes quiet again, and Richie watches as Eddie’s eyes drift shut. He wonders briefly if it’s weird that he’s still here now that Eddie’s starting to fall asleep, but decides he doesn’t care much either way. If Eddie wants him to leave, he’ll say something. Until then, Richie is content to stay put.

Richie eventually falls asleep himself, and must sleep like the Goddamn dead because he wakes up at like eleven a.m.

“Rich, wake the fuck up.” Eddie’s nudging him. He must have crashed right here in the stupid chair, if Eddie can reach him. “Get out, dude, the nurse has to change my bandages.”

“Aw, little Eddie Spaghetti doesn’t want me to see him with his shirt off, huh? Is someone shy?” He teases, ruffling Eddie’s hair but moving towards the door anyway. Fuck, he’s sore. Again with sleeping in the chair, dammit.

“I’m wearing a fucking_ hospital gown _, asshole. If you stay in here, you run the risk of seeing, like, my whole dick.” In the corner, the nurse is giggling to herself. Richie hadn’t even noticed her at first.

“Say no more, I’m on my way out.” He waves over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him. Is that true? Is he not allowed to wear pants under the hospital gown? Gee, Eddie must _ hate _that, laying bare-assed in a bed that’s not even his own.

There’s a relatively short time where Richie stands awkwardly in the hallway, and then the nurse pokes her friendly face out.

“Mr. Kaspbrak is dressed, you can come back in if you’d like.”

Richie sits in the chair and listens as the nurse explains to Eddie what the plan for his recovery is from here on out. At least five times a day a nurse will come help him out of bed for a little walking exercise (Richie decides he won’t be in the room for that. Watching Eddie trying to walk last night was too hard. He’s not interested in watching it five times a day.) Tomorrow, the nurse says, he’ll be transitioned from the in-vein pain medication to a pill. The day after, he’ll be allowed solid foods. And if all goes well, he’ll be allowed to go home on the fourth day.

The next few days seem to crawl by. Richie doesn’t leave the room often, and Eddie doesn’t ask him to. He does make one trip back to the Townhouse to shower and take a nap in an actual bed, but beyond that he only leaves during the times the nurses have Eddie walking or when they have to change his bandages. During those times, Richie usually wanders off to the cafe, or just sits outside Eddie’s room. Once, as Eddie’s doing his walking, he steps outside the hospital to finally call his tour manager. It goes just as poorly as he expected. Tickets to cancelled shows have to be refunded, and there are angry fans, and the venues that were hosting the shows are pissy. It’s sort of a nightmare, actually, but Richie’s got bigger fish to fry. And by “bigger fish” he means asking Eddie what he plans to do once he’s released from the hospital. Richie’s already made up his mind that he’d stay here in Derry and care for Eddie for the six weeks the doctors say recovery will take - but what if Eddie doesn’t want him to?

Richie finally mentions it on the third day after the surgery, as Eddie’s staring with contempt at the first solid food he’s been allowed to have.

“Hey, Eds, d’you plan on going home to New York once you’re outta this place?”

“What? Are you a fucking idiot? You think I’m gonna catch a flight _ anywhere _in this condition?” He stops pushing peas around his plate long enough to shoot Richie a glare. “I guess I have no choice but to rent a place here and have Myra come out. I can’t be on my own, I can barely walk to the bathroom without help.”

Richie doesn’t mention that Eddie hasn’t called his wife once this whole time - in fact, more than once Richie’s seen him ignore calls from one Myra Kaspbrak.

“I mean, if you’d rather, I can just stay here and, uh. You know.” He pauses. How does he say this without sounding stupid as hell? “Y’know. Take care of you, or whatever.”

“Well, gee, Rich, don’t sound so sincere about it.” Eddie deadpans. “Really, though, thank you, but I can’t ask you to do that.”

“I don’t mind. And you’re not asking me to do it, I’m offering.”

Eddie goes quiet for a while, poking his mashed potatoes with suspicion.

“I don’t really want Myra coming out here.” He finally admits.

“No offence, dude, but based on the fact that you’ve been avoiding her calls, I kinda figured.”

And so it’s decided. Richie rents a little two-bedroom place in town, and the next day he listens as the doctors explain to Eddie how to care for his still-healing wounds. Not that he retains any of it, and not that Eddie doesn’t know all of this stuff already. The other Losers are there, too, of course, and someone was nice enough to bring Richie his car from where he’d left it, parked at the library before the fight with It. They’d even gone back to the Townhouse and gotten both Richie’s and Eddie’s luggage. His friends are actually the best.

Ben and Beverly are leaving today, together. Bill is catching a flight home tomorrow, and Mike is leaving not long after that. Standing around in the hospital parking lot, the whole group watches as Eddie is eased into the front seat of Richie’s car. They’re about to launch into their goodbyes when Bill speaks up.

“I think we sh-should all go to the Barrens,” he says, and Richie notices that the more time passes after their showdown with It, the better Bill’s stutter seems to get. “I know Ben and Beverly have to catch their flight, and Eddie might not be able to go, but I think we should at least t-t-try.”

To be honest, Richie isn’t sure what the hell Bill’s thinking. However, when Bill thinks something’s important it usually turns out that he’s right. And, well, they followed Bill into the sewers as kids to kill an ancient evil, this isn’t exactly the craziest thing they’ve done because he asked. 

Eddie can’t swim, because he can’t let his bandages get wet, so instead of leaping into the water from atop the cliff like they did as kids, they find a path to one of the banks of the Kenduskeag and walk down to the place where the water licks lazily at the rocks. They choose the shortest, easiest path to take - it's just a few minute walk with some drops here and there - but still they all keep an eye on Eddie, someone occasionally falling back to support him. Eddie definitely seems to be in pain, and the walk that would usually be a relaxing ten minute thing is a longer, more trying experience. Richie kind of hates Bill for asking them to do this right now, but he trusts Bill’s judgement. Even though he knows the doctors said walking is good for Eddie, he still worries this is too much. Eddie, for his part, complains about mosquitoes and poison ivy the whole time.

“Bill, why are we here?” Eddie asks, kicking a pebble into the water. Some of the color had drained from his face on the way down, but now that he can lean against a tree and catch his breath he seems to be losing some of the pallor.

“I don’t know, it just seemed important.” Bill glances at him, something in his eyes so steadfast and certain.

Everyone sits on the bank together, shedding their shoes and socks, rolling their pants up, and letting the water wash over their feet. Eddie complains about this, too, but doesn’t even hesitate to untie his shoes.

Sitting with his friends, Richie feels like a weight has been lifted from him. He chalks it up to just relief that Eddie’s fine and It’s really dead, but he isn’t totally convinced that’s all it is.

They’ve come full circle, right back to where this had all started so long ago - right back to where they’d come with Bill, looking for Georgie that day.

It’s good to be here, surrounded by the late-summer sounds of the Barrens. It’s good to feel like they’re finally truly free of It, free from the tiny little ways It surely was still impacting their lives. Maybe Richie will never know all the ways that summer and that clown truly affected him, and he’d honestly rather _ not _know. What’s important is that now neither their promise nor that clown hold any power over them anymore. He rubs one finger idly over the place where the scar had once marred his palm. Now there is only smooth, unmarked skin in the place that Bill had cut his hand 27 years ago.

He doesn’t vocalize any of what he’s feeling, but somehow he knows, intrinsically, that everyone else feels the same. They’ve come back to where it started. The circle has closed.

They chat for a while, mostly about their recently recovered childhood memories, as the sun sinks lazily in the sky and paints the river bank in shades of hazy orange. By the time Ben and Bev stand, saying they have to get going if they don’t want to miss their flight, the crickets have already begun chirping in the underbrush.

They all know Eddie won’t be able to make it out to the airport to see them all off, so they say their goodbyes there in the Barrens on the banks of the Kenduskeag, just like when they’d made that blood oath so long ago. There’s a time where they all exchange farewells and words of love, swearing to stay in contact between long, drawn out hugs. Beverly openly cries, but Richie sees tears in everyone else’s eyes, too. Not that he’s doing any better.

They hike back out of the Barrens, saying more goodbyes as they all climb into their own separate cars. Richie watches the others drive away, and a pang of sadness overcomes him. Please let them remember this time. There’s plenty of bad shit he’d like to forget, sure, but he’d rather live with the bad memories if it means he can keep the good ones, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an easter egg in this chapter :eye emoji: lemme know if you find it.
> 
> Anyway, I felt like the scene at the end of chapter 2 where they go back to the Barrens was important symbolically, and while I obviously couldn't recreate it exactly I tried to capture the same important "we've come full circle" vibes that the movie gave me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo this chapter includes a scene of unpacking & repacking a wound, and it's not bloody or graphic or anything but if medical stuff makes you squeamish please be aware! It's like 3/4 of the way down.
> 
> First Day of My Life - Bright Eyes

If you’d told thirteen-year-old Richie that he’d ever be living with Eddie, even if only temporarily, he might’ve thought you were crazy. You’d have had a better chance of convincing him of all the Pennywise shit.

There’s a musty, damp odor beneath the stronger mothball smell that permeates the house, and the furniture is some awful floral pattern. The ugly wallpaper is yellowing and peeling, and there are water stains on the ceiling. Richie can vividly picture a group of grandmas sitting around the living room for book club and tea. He pauses in the doorway, carrying both his and Eddie's bags, and eyes the interior with a skepticism that’s rare for him. Eddie steps in only a second later and reacts about as well as Richie expected.

"Jesus Christ, man, this place looks like it’s older than my great-grandma. Has this decor been changed at all since the 1900s?”

“Okay, Princess, it’s the only place I could find on such short notice that had two bedrooms and no stairs. Last thing we need is you tripping down the stairs and fucking killing yourself.”

“It’s best for you if there are no stairs. Six weeks living with you... I can’t promise I wouldn’t try to push you down them.”

"Eds!” Richie brings a hand to his chest, pretending to be scandalized. “You wouldn’t!”

Eddie moves around where Richie’s blocking the path, making his way to the couch. He starts to yank cushions up, inspecting them closely. He’s wobbling a bit, and Richie’s suddenly very concerned he’s going to fall.

“Dude, sit the fuck down, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

“No way. Not until I check for bedbugs.”

“W-what?” He splutters. Eddie’s going to kill him. This little dick is gonna give him an aneurysm. “There’s no bugs! Sit your ass down before you collapse!”

It turns out, Eddie’s a terrible listener. He thoroughly inspects every nook and cranny of the couch, even though his legs look like they’re going to give out at any second, before finally sitting down. Richie carries their bags into the bedrooms, dismayed to realize he doesn’t have enough stuff for a six week stay. Eddie does - he apparently packed like he knew from the beginning he was going to be gone for over a month. Seriously, who needs that many bags for what was supposed to be a short visit to their hometown?

He checks on Eddie, who’s sitting on the couch and surveying the threadbare rug and the faded wood of the coffee table. Eddie asks for his prescription pain pills, and Richie brings him a dose. Then, when Eddie says he doesn’t need anything else right now, Richie goes out to buy groceries. There’s no food in the house, after all, and both of them are practically chomping at the bit to get something besides the shitty hospital food.

He comes back an hour later, struggling to carry all the bags at once as he steps inside.

“Honey, I’m home!” He exclaims in a singsong voice, kicking the door shut behind him. There is no response - Eddie’s dozed off on the couch. That’s not surprising, really. The hike probably drained him, seeing as he hasn’t moved that much since the surgery. Richie debates for a moment, standing in the doorway with his arms full of grocery bags, about whether he should wake Eddie up and tell him to go to bed if he’s gonna nap. On one hand, Eddie’s probably already sore from the hike today and sleeping sitting up on the couch, neck bent at a terrible angle, is only going to make him feel worse. On the other hand, he does need his rest and Richie would feel bad waking him.

In the end he decides to just wake him, dropping the shopping bags and tapping Eddie’s shoulder until two bleary brown eyes reluctantly open to peer at him.

“Good morning, Eddie. You should probably just go on to bed if you plan on napping. Sleeping out here can’t be good for your back.”

Eddie blinks at him for a moment, still not totally alert. “Says the guy who slept in a chair in my hospital room the last four days.”

“Don’t sass me, young man. I’ll carry you to bed, don’t test me.”

“I can walk to bed on my own, dude - no! Put me down, fucker!” Richie heaves Eddie up into his arms as the other man is talking, only thinking for one second that the added weight is going to make him lose his balance.

“No can do. It’s nap time.” 

“You’re gonna kill both of us, Jesus Christ.”

“Just ‘Richie’ is fine, Eds, really. And I’m not gonna drop you. I carried you out of the sewers without dropping you, didn’t I?” Richie, thankfully, had left the door open to Eddie’s room after dropping their bags off earlier, so he doesn’t have to fight to turn to knob while his arms are full of five feet nine inches of irritated Edward Kaspbrak. Which is good, because while Eddie only seems mildly annoyed now he might be legitimately angry should Richie drop him - and besides, being dropped on his ass probably isn’t exactly part of his recovery plan.

“Didn’t Ben and Bill help you carry me out of the sewers?”

“I carried you almost halfway by myself, thank you very much!” As much as Richie wants to toss him onto the mattress, he doesn’t think being jostled that much is good for his stitches. So instead he places Eddie down as gently as he can, even though bending down that far doesn’t do any favors for his knees. “See? Safe and sound.”

“I don’t even want to sleep, dude.”

“I brought you back here for nothing? Gee, see what I get for trying to be nice.” He pretends to be offended, rolling his eyes. “Unpack your million bags or something, then,” he adds with a shrug. Then he ruffles Eddie’s hair, earning himself a swat on the hand, and makes his way back to the living room where he had abandoned the shopping bags earlier.

He puts the groceries away, certain that later Eddie’s going to critique the way he’s organized the cabinets. And, well, that’s about all that needs his immediate attention, isn’t it? Besides unpacking his one measly bag, there’s nothing else he has to handle right away, so he decides to finally call his tour manager. You know, that thing he’s been avoiding for days. It is, after all, kind of important that his manager know he’s gonna be gone for six more weeks.

_"Six weeks!?” _ His manager practically screams. “Rich, what the _ fuck_?”

“Look, man, I know it’s shitty of me, but a friend had an accident. He needs someone to stay with him and he doesn’t have anyone else around here. I’m sorry.”

“You’re killin’ me, Rich. First you fuck of to some middle-of-nowhere town in Maine and now you’re staying there for six whole weeks?”

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he can hear his agent grumbling when he hangs up the phone.

“Who was that?” Eddie asks, making Richie just about jump out of his skin.

“Christ, Eddie, don’t sneak up on me. That was my touring manager. He’s pissy that I’m missing so many dates.”

Eddie, standing at the end of the hallway, frowns.

“Don’t look so down, Spaghetti.” Richie pinches the cheek that doesn’t have a stitched up knife wound on it. “I told you before, I’m offering to stay here. Turn that frown upside down.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, but at least he stops frowning.

“I need your help. You left my bags on the floor and I can’t get to them. Doctor said no bending or lifting, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Richie does not mention that he doesn’t remember much else the doctors told them.

Richie drags Eddie’s bags off the floor and plops them on the bed. Then he sits on the mattress next to them. He passes articles of clothing to Eddie, who hangs them in the closet or folds them and tucks them into the dresser. They work in relative quiet, until that comfortable silence is broken by Eddie’s stomach growling.

They order takeout for dinner, under the mutual understanding that their takeout will not be chinese.

The pair eats their food and watches a shitty movie on t.v. Eddie’s still pretty weak and easily tired out, and by the time the movie’s over his eyelids are looking heavy. He goes to bed rather early.

The second day brings its own little surprises, namely: Richie has to help change Eddie’s bandages. This is something that neither is really thrilled about, but it’s a fact of life and when Eddie says he’ll need help, Richie doesn’t question it. It would be hard to wrap and unwrap bandages from around your body if you can’t bend or twist very much, he supposes.

Richie hasn’t seen Eddie’s wound - although he supposes it’s just stitches now. He had seen it, kind of, in the cave. But there was so much blood and torn clothing, he didn’t actually _ see it. _ And in the hospital, because of the whole gown thing, he stepped out whenever the nurses had to change his bandages - both for Eddie’s privacy and because, dammit, if he’s gonna see Eddie’s dick it’s gonna be in better circumstances. _ Like, sexy circumstances, _ a voice in his head whispers and he squashes that motherfucker like a bug.

"Do you know what you’re doing?” Eddie asks, sitting on the edge of the bathtub with his shirt draped over his knee. There’s a rather intimidating box of supplies sitting on the floor nearby, and a bowl of sterile solution on the back of the toilet. It has some material floating in it. Eddie had prepared that, and had brought the box of supplies into the room. Richie doesn’t have the slightest clue what any of this stuff is for.

“Yes.” Richie lies. There’s blood on the bandages, which he hadn’t expected. Richie assumed it wouldn’t bleed at all after it was stitched up.

“No you don’t.” Eddie rolls his eyes, reaching awkwardly behind himself to fumble with the tape on the ends of the bandages.

“Dude, you’re gonna fucking tear your stitches out if you go bending like that. Stop.” He swats Eddie’s hands away, loosening the wrappings himself. It takes a little maneuvering to get the bandage unwrapped; Richie gets Eddie’s arm tangled in it once or twice before finding it’s easier if he uses both hands.

“Richie, dude, you’re supposed to be wearing gloves, dumbass!” Eddie exclaims suddenly. “Did you even wash your hands?”

"Fuck, shit, alright, lemme get some gloves.”

"And wash your fucking hands!”

“And wash my fucking hands.” Richie agrees. “But what’s the point in doing both?”

“It’s to make sure your hands are sterile. Hurry up.”

After that’s dealt with, he returns to the task. Eddie watches him, not bothering to hide his skepticism. That’s only a little insulting, but seeing as he forgot to put gloves on, Richie supposes that skepticism is warranted.

Eddie’s wound is, in fact, not “just stitches” like he’d expected. There’s a wad of fabric or something sitting nestled tightly in the wound.

“It’s a fucking nightmare, I know.” Eddie says, and Richie realizes he’s been staring for a moment.

“I figured it’d be all stitched up.”

“Nah. It was fucking filthy since we’d been romping through the Derry sewer system, and they didn’t want to stitch it closed and trap bacteria and shit inside. Skin heals faster than muscle. If there was bacteria or anything still inside when they closed the wound, they’d basically just be making a pocket for infection to grow. So instead they stitched the inside, but left the last few inches in the front and back open, forcing it to heal from the inside out and hopefully not trapping germs under the skin.”

“It’s kind of fucked up that you still technically have an open hole in your stomach.”

“I wish they could’ve just closed the thing up without risking any number of infections, because then I wouldn’t have to keep it bandaged. Okay, you have to take the packing material out.”

Richie, a little shaken up, removes the wadded up material. He tosses it in the plastic bag they brought for trash. Now he can see the wound is, in fact, about two inches deep in the areas they didn’t stitch.

“Okay, take some of the packing material out of the bowl - dude, be careful! It’s dripping fucking sterile solution all over the bathroom. You have to wring it out.”

“Uh, alright, so does this, like, go _ in _your stab wound now?”

“Rich, man, you look like a ghost. You okay? If this is freaking you out, I can do it. I mean, I can’t do the back, but I can at least do the front while you get yourself together.”

“No, no, I got it!” He packs the wound under Eddie’s watchful eye.

“Okay, now…” Eddie grabs a cotton swab out of the supply box. It’s individually wrapped in plastic. “You gotta use this to kinda poke the packing into all the little corners.”

“Thats fucking _ morbid _.”

“You’re fucking morbid.”

“That’s not what your mom said when I was packing _ her _wound, if you know what I mean. Poking my cotton swab into all of her little corners.” He kneels on the tile floor, so he can be eye-to-eye with the stab wound he’s supposed to be filling with packing material. He starts poking around, using the cotton swab to get material into any sections his fingers were too big to reach.

“Gee, Rich, your dick’s only as big as a cotton swab? I always knew all those jokes were overcompensation.”

Richie sputters for a second.

“Yeah, alright, you got me good. Eddie Kaspbrak gets off a good one.” When he glances up, Eddie’s grinning at him.

After that, it’s easier. They have to clean the skin around the wound next. To his credit, Richie does not think about the fact that he’s on his knees between Eddie’s legs or the fact that he’s touching Eddie’s abs, but only because there’s nothing sexy about this at all. Richie cannot give himself too much credit, though, because he still pokes Eddie’s belly button with the tip of his pinkie, making a high-pitched “beep” noise. Eddie shoves his hand away and tells him he’s “being a fucking werido.” 

When the front is done, Eddie turns around so Richie can repeat the process on his back. He knows what he’s doing now, so it goes a bit more smoothly. It still freaks him out a bit to see the open wound, red and painful looking inside. He wonders briefly how this doesn’t hurt Eddie, but then remembers hearing once that wounds deep enough can just kill the nerves outright.

At the end they wrap fresh, clean bandages around Eddie’s stomach. Eddie takes the box of supplies and the bag of trash, disappearing down the hallway. Richie washes his hands and mentally high-fives himself for getting through that without being _ too _squeamish.

Richie actually cooks dinner that night, as opposed to the take-out they'd had the night before. Eddie sits on a chair in the kitchen and watches, nitpicking that he didn't wash his knife between cutting the meat and cutting the vegetables. Richie listens to music and dances in place, chuckling a little when Eddie complains.

"Do you know how unsafe it is to dance while you're using a knife, dude? You're gonna cut your finger off and then _ you're _ going to have to be in the hospital."

"Relax, Eddie Spaghetti." Richie waves him off. Then, he exclaims "I should have made spaghetti for dinner! Spaghetti for my lil' Spaghetti Man." He stops cooking long enough to pinch Eddie’s good cheek.

"No, I don't think so." Eddie frowns. "And don't call me that, dickwad.”

"Oh, you love my nicknames."

"Fuck you. I don't." That's a lie. He kind of does. And he has to admit, later that evening, that even though Richie danced like an idiot and didn't wash his knife often enough, the food is actually good. Richie’s only a little insulted when he says as much.

"Of course it is, man. Believe it or not, I'm an adult. Who do you think has been feeding me for the last 27 years?"

For the first few days, that’s about how it goes. Eddie wakes up before Richie and has a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee, because it’s all he can manage to make for himself right now. He spends most of the day on the couch. Richie wakes up an hour or so later, and drinks the cup of coffee Eddie's always thoughtful enough to have ready for him. They watch shitty movies and play old tabletop games and Eddie goes to bed early, feeling a little bad that he’s just sitting around while Richie’s cleaning the house, and checking in on him regularly, and generally being more pleasant than he’d expected. Not that Richie’s not his annoying self.

He insists on listening to music from his phone while he cleans. And he sings loudly even though he sucks. In fact, when Eddie tells him he’s terrible he just sings louder. The jokes are constant, and so are the stupid impressions. And the nicknames. He doesn’t wash the bedsheets once a week, Eddie learns, and they have a little disagreement about that - in the end, Richie agrees to wash Eddie’s sheets once a week. Frankly, Eddie doesn’t give a shit what Richie does with his own sheets. He _ could _live without the way Richie jokes about that particular request, though.

“Shit, Eds. What are you doing to your sheets that they need washed every week? You have night sweats? You jerkin’ off in bed too much?”

"God, shut the fuck up, asshole. Do you even know how much sweat and dead skin collects in your sheets and mattress? If you want to sleep surrounded by your own germs, that’s your problem.”

"Your mom knows all about my germs.”

"Fuck you, dude. Fuck you.”

Richie doesn't know what he'd expected when he agreed to stay and help Eddie, but it hasn't been too bad, really. Eddie wants to help out around the house, but he's still only a few days out of surgery and he can't do much, especially since the doctors ordered he not bend, twist, or lift. The pain and general exhaustion makes him a little bit cranky sometimes, but overall it's easy because Eddie is as self sufficient as he can be. He never needs reminded to get up and do the walking exercise the doctors insisted he do, he's mobile enough that he can make a sandwich if he's hungry at lunch time or can get to and from the bathroom or his bed. Mostly Richie's just handling all the chores and housework. The only time Eddie asks Richie for much is if he's having a particularly tough day and is hurting a lot, and he only occasionally needs help getting up from a sitting position.

Truth be told, Richie hasn't hated it. He hasn't even disliked it. It's kind of nice, actually. It's good to have someone around, as compared to his relatively solitary existence in California. It's good to have _ Eddie _ around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I did like actual research about wound healing. Wow, research.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Will - Mitski

“Richie, if you buy that last yellow property, I swear I’m gonna crawl over this table and kick your ass.”

‘Well then I guess you better get your little behind over here, Eds, because Marvin Gardens is _ mine _.”

“You suck. Did you know that? You fucking suck.” Eddie throws a piece of popcorn at Richie. Richie tries to catch it in his mouth, misses, and watches as it bounces harmlessly off his cheek and onto the carpet.

“You’re wasting perfectly good popcorn now!”

Instead of giving a response, Eddie throws another piece. It hits Richie’s glasses, leaving a smudge of butter on the lens.

As Richie is wiping his glasses clean, his phone rings. He slips his glasses back on and sees the contact photo for Bev - a picture Ben had sent to the Losers after they left Derry, of Bev’s profile against a sunset.

“Derry City Morgue, you stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”

Eddie makes a face at the way he answers the phone, but Bev is undeterred.

“Hey, Richie.” She sounds like she’s smiling. “I was just calling to check in. You and Eddie haven’t killed each other yet, have you?”

“I’m killing him at Monopoly, if that counts.”

“Oh, is he in the room? Put me on speaker.”

“Of course, ma’am,” he does an _ okay _british butler voice - not a good one, but a passable one - and puts the phone on speaker, laying it in the middle of the Monopoly board.

“Hi, Eddie,” she chirps. “Losing Monopoly, huh? I thought you were a risk analyst, shouldn’t you be good at, like, weighing the pros and cons of an investment? How are you losing?”

“Richie is cheating,” he deadpans. “How are you, Bev?”

“I’m doing well. Really well, actually. It’s been great living with Ben, and my nightmares have stopped.”

“Are you and Haystack official yet?” Richie asks, and Eddie kicks him under the table as if to berate him for being so upfront. Richie supposes that might be a rude thing to ask if Bev wasn’t one of their closest friends, but she _ is _one of their closest friends so he doesn’t see the harm in asking.

“No, we’re not,” Bev answers, obviously not bothered by Richie’s question. ‘We’re taking things kind of slow.”

“Beverly. He’s been into you since we were thirteen. How much slower can you take it?”

Eddie kicks him again. “Richie, you’re being fucking rude.”

Bev laughs. “No, Richie does have a point. We just wanted to be sure, you know? It’s been almost thirty years since we last saw each other, a lot can change in that time.” She pauses. “Although, to be honest, it doesn’t really seem like much has changed at all.”

“What do you mean, not much has changed? Ben’s rich and hot now!”

“That’s not what I was talking about and you know it, Richie!” Her voice is light and cheerful, and Richie thinks she must be grinning. It falls back into a more neutral tone as she continues, though. “I just meant that none of us really seem to have changed all that much since we were kids.”

She’s right, and Richie would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed it, too. When he got Mike’s call and started remembering everyone, he was certain that when he walked into Jade of the Orient he’d be meeting versions of them that were drastically different than the newly recovered memories suggested - after all, who’s the same person at forty as they were at thirteen? But after they’d all settled in to their seats, he’d found none of them seemed all that different than he remembered them. They looked different, sure, but they still felt like the kids he knew in the ‘80s. Which maybe isn’t weird, there’s no law saying you have to change every part of yourself as you get older, but it was remarkably easy to slip right back into the same old dynamics they’d had as kids. How many people go to their class reunions and struggle to connect with people they used to be close to? How many friends become distant and then never can find that same dynamic again, can never bridge the gap because their lives are different and they are different and things just aren’t the same?

But that hadn’t been the case with the Loser’s Club, not one of the whole lot seemed to have any issues falling back into the group. Maybe that’s what struck him as the most odd: that with all these people present, statistics seemed to favor the idea that at least one would have trouble fitting in again, and yet none of them had any such difficulties.

“The whole Loser’s Club kinda fell right back into their old roles seamlessly, huh?” Eddie muses. “It really is like there wasn’t any time lost. I mean, sure everyone’s changed, but we still feel like the same old Losers.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Bev asks.

“For Richie, it’s bad.”

“Shut up, Eds. You wouldn’t want me any other way.”

“Do you want to bet on that?”

“Absolutely not.”

Beverly’s laughter rings out, crackling through the phone line and echoing in their passé little rented home. Richie sees a smile forming on Eddie’s face, and in that moment he feels at peace.

He feels significantly less at peace approximately two days later, as he settles on the couch after a shower. From the corner of his eye, he can see Eddie is looking at him from the opposite end of the sofa, gaze fixed on Richie’s face. His eyebrows are furrowed and there’s a grumpy little tilt to the corners of his mouth.

“Uh, Eds? Have I done something to offend you?”

“You get to take showers.” Eddie says, and if that ain’t the most cryptic shit Richie’s ever heard.

“I…I’m sorry?”

“I want to take a shower. I can’t get my injury wet though, so I’m stuck taking whores’ baths.”

Richie chokes on the soda he’d just taken a drink of.

“_ Whores’ baths? _What the fuck is a whore’s bath?”

“You’ve never heard that before?” Eddie’s face goes a little red, actually, which Richie can’t help but think is cute. “It’s when you use, like, a towel or something to wipe yourself clean when you can’t take a proper shower.”

“Oh, dude, have you had a shower since we fought It?”

“No! You think any amount of sanitary wipes or wet rags is gonna make me feel clean after we went rolling around the Goddamn Derry sewers? I feel disgusting, dude. I’d kill for a shower. You could use my hair to grease a pan at this point.” He’s rambling a mile a minute, clearly he’s very unhappy about this whole situation.

Richie takes a moment to survey Eddie’s appearance. He doesn’t look as put-together as Richie would expect of him, but it’s excusable considering he almost died, like, a week ago. His hair is, in fact, dirty and stringy looking. He can’t shave because of the stitches on his cheek, so he’s looking stubbly - something else Richie’s sure is annoying the fuck out of him. However, unlike a week ago, he doesn’t look like he’s on death’s door. He still looks tired, but he seems infinitely better.

“I don’t care how much you whine, I am not letting you take a shower. I’m supposed to be looking after you, and I’m not gonna let you get your stomach all infected or something because you can’t handle not being perfectly clean. You’ll have your whores’ baths and you’ll be happy, young man.”

Eddie makes a sound like he’s dying - which he’d better not be, because Richie didn’t go through all this work to save his life just to have him perish right here because he can’t stand the thought of not being able to bathe.

“Don’t even try to fight me on this, Eds. I’m taller than you and you’re hurt, it’s a fight I’d win.”

“What are you gonna do, tackle me if I make a break for the bathroom?”

“Eddie, if you want me to tackle you, you only have to ask.” He winks.

“Tackling isn’t even a… that’s not even a _ thing _. Tackling isn’t a sexy thing, why did you wink?”

“That’s what you think.” Richie grins, and Eddie fixes him with an exasperated look. “Just ask your mom about all the times I tackled her onto the bed.”

Eddie makes another noise like a dying animal.

“Rich, come on, I can’t live like this.”

“You can’t live without a shower, or you can’t live knowing your mother and I are involved in an intense, passionate relationship?”

“Do you know how fucked up that is? My mom’s dead, asshole. I can’t live taking whores’ baths all the time.”

“Sure would be a shame if you died. Then what member of the Kaspbrak family is going to tolerate me?”

“C’mon, man, help me wash my hair in the sink at least.”

“Can’t you do that on your own?” Richie groans, but he’s getting up anyway.

“No. You know I can’t bend or twist very much.”

Eddie seems almost smug as he grabs a towel and a shampoo bottle and plops them on the kitchen counter. He pulls a chair to the edge of the sink, sitting so he can lean his head back and under the faucet. And then he waits for Richie to get the water running. It takes a moment for the water to warm up (Eddie is not putting his head under ice-cold water.)

Whoever invented the cheesy romance trope where one person gets injured and their love interest nurses them back to health, Richie thinks, was an idiot. There’s been nothing romantic about this ordeal at all - not that he expected there to be. Sure, it's been nice having Eddie around, but not in a romantic way. Well, there _ had _been nothing - Richie isn’t sure if this counts as romantic. It’s, like, a thing for couples to wash each other’s hair, right? Either way, it’s certainly intimate, if nothing else, and that’s still enough to make his palms sweat.

He has to use a glass from the kitchen cupboards to get water over all of Eddie’s hair, because the faucet doesn’t reach the areas closer to his hairline. Eddie settles into the chair and closes his eyes. It’s probably better his eyes are closed, because Richie thinks it’d be weird if Eddie was staring at him while this happened.

After his hair is all thoroughly wet, Richie squeezes some shampoo into his hand and rubs it into the water-darkened strands.

“You do know the purpose in washing your hair is to actually, like, wash your scalp, right?” Eddie says, not bothering to open his eyes.

“Believe it or not, I know how to wash hair. I’ve only been washing mine for 40 years.”

“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Are you saying my hair looks dirty, or are you saying I’m doing a bad job here?”

“I’m saying you’re doing a bad job.”

“Well I’ll show you. I’m gonna rub this shampoo onto your head so well. I’m great with my hands, just -”

“Richie, don’t you dare make a joke about my mom while you’re washing my hair. Actually, you know what, don’t make jokes about my mom _ ever _.”

“You’re no fun.” Richie pretends to pout, working the shampoo suds into Eddie’s scalp. Eddie does not snark back, which is surprising. He looks relaxed, almost like he could be asleep. All the lines of his face have smoothed out a bit and his breathing is slow. Richie rinses part of his hair, running his fingers through it to be sure it’s free of any suds or tangles, as he looks down at his friend. He knows he’s staring, but Eddie looks so peaceful and Richie kind of really wants to kiss him - which isn’t a new feeling, but this is the first time since the Chinese restaurant that he’d been so preoccupied with it.The rest of the time he was too busy being scared of It, or it’s just been the fact that changing your friend’s bandages and watching them struggle to walk to bed by themselves isn’t really the sort of environment that makes one think sappy, kissy thoughts.

But staring at your friend, looking more chill than he has in days, as you gently card your fingers through his hair and rinse shampoo bubbles from the dark strands? Yeah, that’s a kissy sort of environment.

What’s not a kissy environment is trying to rinse the soap from aforementioned friends’ bangs, but being too distracted and dumping the full cup of water onto his face instead.

“Jesus Christ, Rich!” Eddie sits up abruptly, spitting sudsy water from his mouth and bringing the corner of his shirt up to dry his face. “Are you trying to fucking drown me?”

“Shit, sorry!”

“What the hell happened, dude?”

“Sorry, I got distracted.”

“What the fuck is so distracting that you waterboarded the guy you’re supposed to be helping?”

It’s not funny, except that it actually kind of is. Richie bites his lip to keep from laughing, but he’s having trouble holding it in. He can’t believe he just dumped the whole cup of water all over Eddie’s face like that. It’s not a laughing matter, Eddie might actually be upset at him.

Richie’s laughing anyway.

And then Eddie’s fighting off his own little smile, and soon both of them are snickering like children.

“It’s not funny, asshole!” Eddie manages to choke out, but it’s not very convincing. There’s spots of color high on his cheeks and his wet hair is sticking to his face and he’s still chuckling, even as he insists it’s nothing to laugh about. The kissy sort of feelings come back, overwhelming Richie in a way that makes his own giggling falter. He realizes rather suddenly that he’s happy here, living with Eddie. It’s not just that he likes being here, or that it's just good to have Eddie around, he is legitimately happy. Sure, his hands get clammy and his heart squeezes nervously sometimes, but for the most part he just feels comfortable and content. He thinks that even if they never dated, if Eddie never loved him back, he’d still be happy if they could be like this forever - making stupid jokes and laughing and calling each other rude names. How did he forget this? How did he forget _ Eddie? _

“I can’t believe I ever forgot you,” he blurts out, because if there’s one thing his mouth is good at, it’s moving without his permission. “You were my best friend. You’re _ still _my best friend.”

Eddie falters this time, smile morphing into something smaller and more private. Something more personal. His gaze goes soft as he looks at Richie.

“You, too, man.” He leans his head back under the faucet. “Get the rest of this shampoo off me already, would you?”

“It’s weird, I’m still randomly remembering things about my childhood.”

Eddie hums. “Yeah, me too. I’ll just be reading something, or laying in bed or whatever, and a memory hits out of nowhere.”

Richie thinks about what he can remember from his childhood; from that summer. He loved Eddie then, he’s sure of it. The initials carved on the Kissing Bridge are proof enough of that. He wonders if Eddie ever noticed them. Did he see them and wonder? Did he suspect it was Richie who put them there?

“I remember you, traipsing around town in the most ridiculous shorts.” Richie smirks.

“Oh, God, yeah. Why’d I think those were a good idea? I remember you always hogged the fucking hammock. You were a dick, dude, why did I put up with you?”

“I _ was _a dick?”

“Yeah, you’re right, that hasn’t changed.” There’s still a smile playing at the corners of Eddie’s mouth. It makes Richie smile, too. How sappy, huh? He’s really gone soft, if seeing Eddie happy is enough to make his own heart soar.

The shampoo has all been rinsed out now, and Richie runs his fingers through his friend’s hair one last time before shutting off the water.

“All done, Eds.”

He sits up, grabbing the towel from behind him and drying his hair.

“Thanks, Rich. Even though you tried to kill me.”

“I could never kill you. Your mom would never forgive me, and then who would I spend my Saturday nights with?”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and it’s quiet for a while.

“I remember, in the Neibolt house,” Eddie starts suddenly. Richie looks up at him curiously. “After I broke my arm. You remember? You were sitting next to me on the floor.”

“Yeah. I kinda wish I could forget all that stuff again.”

“You fucking tried setting my arm on your own.”

“I did.” Richie agrees. “You told me not to but I did it anyway. I mean, it was a shitty thing to do, I guess, but I was only doing what I thought was best.” Eddie knows that he’d only been trying to help, doesn’t he? He remembers how Eddie had wailed after he had tried setting his arm, and his heart sinks. Eddie knows he hadn’t been trying to hurt him, right?

“Do you remember before that? While It was coming for us. You kept telling me to look at you, grabbing my face and shit. Why’d you do that, dude? It’s not like that was going to make It go away.”

Richie shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I thought it would be better if you couldn’t see It?” He doesn’t admit that he genuinely thought they were going to die there and he didn’t want the last thing Eddie saw to be that fucking clown.

“Oh, and when Pennywise came out of the projector in Bill’s garage. You kept grabbing me then, too. Were you _ protective _ of me as a kid?”

“Lies. Slander. I can’t believe you’d want to sully my reputation like this. Why are you trying to tarnish my good name?” Richie can’t admit that he was protective, because that comes so dangerously close to admitting _ why _ he was so protective. It comes too close to admitting he was in love - that he _ is _ in love. But for one heart-stopping moment, Eddie looks at him the same way the other Losers did in the hospital. Eddie looks at him like he _ knows _, and it makes Richie’s stomach turn unpleasantly.

He spends a long time laying in bed that night and thinking about the things he can recall about growing up here in Derry. It's easy to linger on the bad stuff - the bullying, the missing children, the general fear that permeated most of his childhood. At the same time, none of that is what comes to mind at first. His first memory when he thinks about his life as a kid isn't all the fear, it's all the joy. He had friends who he loved and who loved him back. Despite all the shit they all endured, they found their own little place in the world and that was enough for them. Together they found a way to not only survive the piece of shit town that is Derry, but they found a few chucks along the way. More than a few, maybe. They had plenty of good times, and perhaps that's why remembering has been so hard. It's been hard remembering it all only because it hurts to realize he'd forgotten in the first place. And it hurts to know those times are over for good. The seven of them will never hang out in the clubhouse together again, or goof off in the Barrens, or blow all their money in the arcade, or cram all seven of their bodies into a photo booth much too small. It hurts, but he's glad he's remembered anyway. These memories are precious and even though it's a little hard to think about them, they bring him a warm sort of nostalgia along with the sadness.

Maybe that's just what it's like to grow up, though, even without the fucked up amnesia shit the Losers had to deal with.

When he falls asleep, it’s to memories of riding bikes through town with his friends and watching movies together at the Aladdin, nostalgia draping itself heavy over him.

A measly 4 hours later, he wakes with a start. A cold sweat has broken out over his body and he's trembling. The image from his dream, that of Eddie's limp body lying on the floor among the rubble from the collapsing cave system, shrinking as the rest of the Losers get farther and farther away, seems like it's been burned into the backs of his eyelids.

_ That's not how it happened _, he reminds himself. Eddie survived and didn't get left in that sewer. He's here, in this antiquated little house, right now. He is fine. Still, the feeling of his lungs being smushed doesn't leave him until he sneaks a little peek into Eddie's room. The other man is fast asleep, of course, moonlight falling in slants through the blinds and across his face. Richie watches him for a moment, surveying the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, before he himself feels like he can breathe freely again.

Still, he doesn’t manage to get any more sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! If you've been waiting for development on that whole "Stan lives" tag.... it's happening soon. I wanted it in this chapter, but I didn't want to cram too many words into this update.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has, like, some, vague references/descriptions of suicide. It's not graphic & is purposefully left pretty unclear, but I still don't feel good putting anything like that without a little warning.
> 
> Mountains - Bat for Lashes, Dreams Fall Hard - Car Seat Headrest

On day ten Eddie gets to go back to the hospital and have the stitches in his cheek removed, which is at least a small victory. Eddie certainly seems happy about it. He’s going to have a scar from the knife Bowers stuck through his face, but that’s not the worst thing in the world. He seems to be getting better, too. He’s not as easily tired as he was at first, but there’s still a lot of restrictions on the things he can do.

The drive back home after getting the stitches removed is upbeat, Eddie in high spirits and throwing out almost as many jabs at Richie as Richie is making at him.

“Dude,” Richie says, as if just realizing something. “You’re gonna have two cool scars.”

“What? I don’t want two cool scars. I don’t want _ any _scars.”

“You don’t? Chicks love a guy with scars.” He contemplates this as they come to a red light. He doesn’t know much about Eddie’s wife, but she doesn’t seem like she’s the type to get hot under the collar for a tough looking scar. “Actually, on second thought, your wife’s kind of… how to put this… overbearing? I don’t think she’s going to appreciate your cool scars.”

Eddie goes suspiciously quiet. Now, Eddie is a lot of things but ‘quiet’ isn’t usually one, especially not when he’d been in such a good mood only moments ago.

Richie looks over and finds that Eddie’s staring out the passenger side window, fidgeting with his wedding band. It occurs to Richie with a bit of a start that this is the first time they’ve talked about Eddie’s wife since that day in the hospital, when Richie offered to care for Eddie during his recovery. He hasn’t been watching Eddie’s every move or anything so he doesn’t know if Eddie’s talked to his wife since he got out of the hospital, but based on how he’d been avoiding her calls during his hospital stay, Richie would guess he hasn’t.

It’s a little weird that they haven’t really talked about Eddie’s life very much. They’ve talked plenty about Richie’s life. Eddie knows Richie’s on tour, and he knows what tour dates he’s had to cancel. He knows Richie hasn’t dated anyone in a humiliatingly long time. But Richie doesn’t know much about Eddie’s life outside of what was revealed on the night of the reunion.

“Have you, uh, you know… talked to her?” 

“Who? My wife?” He won’t look at Richie, just continuing to twist the silver band around his finger. “No, I haven’t.”

They don’t say much after that. What else is there to say? The energy that had previously been in the car seems to have flown out the window, and they make the rest of the drive in somber and uncomfortable silence.

Finally, as they’re pulling into the driveway of their temporary residence, Eddie speaks again.

“I don’t think I ever loved Myra,” he says, voice so damn quiet that Richie has to strain to hear it.

Richie whips his head around so fast that he very nearly sends the car careening into the nicely manicured lawn. Eddie’s still not looking at him, but he tries to reign his reaction in to something more acceptable, anyway. He has no clue what to say, but it turns out not to matter because Eddie keeps talking.

“Well, no, I guess that’s not true. I did love her, but I wasn’t…” He sighs heavily, and Richie gets the sense that perhaps this matter is a bit out of their depth. Eddie’s brows draw together as he takes a moment to find the words. “I cared for her,” he finally says, emphasis on ‘cared.’ Richie gets it, he thinks. He’s never been in the situation Eddie’s in, but he thinks he at least understands what Eddie is trying to say. There is, after all, a difference between _ caring _ for someone and being _ in love _ with them.

“You loved her, but you weren’t _ in _love with her?”

Eddie nods, and then drops his head into his hands.

“And I still married her. What the fuck is wrong with me?”

“I mean, marriage doesn’t have to be permanent.” Richie offers tentatively.

“Yeah, that’ll go over well. I’ll just call her up and tell her that I was never actually in love with her and I only married her because I can’t escape my mom even now that she’s dead.”

Something clicks into place for Richie. He knew Sonia Kaspbrak, in much the same way the rest of the Losers knew his own parents. You don’t hang around the same people for your whole childhood and not eventually get to know their parents at least a little bit. He knows full well how Eddie’s mom treated him, and how Eddie felt about it. It was abuse, that’s the long and short of it. No matter what reasoning Sonia had for how she treated her son, it was abuse. He knew Myra was incredibly similar to Sonia, but for some reason he hadn’t quite put it all together before. It makes sense now, though - Myra is similar to Sonia and that’s precisely why Eddie married her, isn’t it? Richie’s brain feels like it’s doing somersaults, making connections left and right. 

“Eds,” he starts, even though he doesn’t know what he’s going to say. “If you aren’t happy, you should leave her. You owe yourself a chance to be happy. And besides, don’t you think it’s better for both of you if you guys split up?”

Eddie winces a bit at that, and Richie instantly feels bad for saying it.

“C’mon, I haven’t been able to stand up to her in five years of marriage,” he says, voice small

Richie reaches over, patting Eddie on the leg before slipping his hand over Eddie’s.

“I really did care about her, you know.” Eddie whispers. “I loved her the same way I loved my mom. I loved them even despite the way they treated me. I loved them both, but I kind of hated them, too.”

Richie ponders this for a moment. It’s a uniquely difficult situation to be in, to have married a woman only because the shadow of your mother’s abuse still hangs over you. A woman you care for but aren’t in love with; a woman who treats you the same way your mother did. Richie doesn’t have any advice for his friend, even though he desperately wishes he did.

The pair sits in the silent car, idled in the driveway outside their rented home, for a long moment before Richie finally finds some words that feel appropriate.

“You might not have been able to stand up to her yet, but you can. Who risked his life to save me from the deadlights? Who got stabbed in the face and still fought back? I said it before and I’ll say it again, Eds. You’re braver than you think. And I think you know what the right thing to do is.”

Eddie rubs a hand down his face, and he suddenly looks very tired.

“Thanks,” he sighs. “I… sorry to dump all this on you.”

“You don’t have to apologize, dude. What are friends for?” He claps Eddie on the shoulder. Then he turns off the car and the two step out into the summer afternoon, the atmosphere between them seeming to lighten when the sun hits their skin. Still, Richie’s heart feels like someone just stomped on it, seeing the stress and nerves playing behind those big brown eyes he’s come to love so much. There’s nothing he can do, he knows that. It doesn’t change how badly he wishes he could help.

The next few days pass with no mention of the conversation they’d had in the car. Richie certainly isn’t going to bring it up, and Eddie seems equally as content to go on as if it hadn’t happened. Richie suspects that, although nothing more has been said on the topic, Eddie is thinking about the Myra situation, anyway. More than once, Richie spots the other man twisting his wedding band around on his finger and staring off into space, a frown on his face. Richie doesn’t know all the details, but he knows enough - he knows Eddie’s unhappy, he knows that Eddie married Myra only because he is, on some level, still trying to appease the voice of his mother that won’t seem to go away, and he knows Myra encouraged Eddie’s hypochondria. His mother taught him he was fragile, and his wife enforced the idea. Both seem awful to Richie. He truly hopes, for Eddie’s sake, that Eddie will find it in himself to be honest with Myra.

But it’s not his place to say as much, and so he keeps it to himself. Besides, he’s never been great at dealing with emotional topics - the moment in the car the other day was his best attempt at being comforting, and he’s not eager to try it again. And thus, the matter of Eddie’s marriage is left up in the air, unknowable and unapproachable.

It’s the middle of the thirteenth day when Richie comes into the living room, dragging a basket of freshly dried laundry with him, prepared to drop it in Eddie’s lap. Eddie’s taken to folding the laundry since it’s one of the only chores he can actually help with, and Richie’s glad to let him help out as much as possible. Richie doesn’t love doing all the housework around here, and he knows Eddie hates feeling so useless. However, as he steps into the room, ready to unload this laundry onto Eddie, he hears something that makes him pause.

The house doesn’t have cable, so if they want to watch t.v. they have limited options. When he’d last been in the room, a movie from the 50s called _ The Crawling Eye _was playing on the old television set. Richie’s seen that one before, as a child. It had frightened him, not that he would have admitted it. Eddie, however, had apparently been unhappy watching the giant, tentacled eyeball on screen, because now the television is switched off. Instead, Eddie’s watching something on his phone. Richie listens to his own voice coming from Eddie’s phone, and can feel embarrassment wash over him in one great wave.

“Richie, you didn’t tell me you had a comedy special.” Eddie looks cheeky when he says it, glancing up from his phone, and it kind of makes Richie want to scream.

“Yeah, uh, I didn’t tell you because it’s old and, more importantly, because it’s fucking _ bad _.” He heaves the laundry basket up, plopping it solidly into Eddie’s unsuspecting lap. “It was a total flop, and even I can admit it’s not very funny.”

“Maybe it’d be funny if you wrote your own jokes.”

“Aw, Eds, do you think my jokes are funny?”

“No.”

“It’s too late. You already admitted my shows would be funny if I wrote the jokes. Ergo, you think my jokes are funny.”

“Shut up, _ Trashmouth _.” Eddie throws a clean towel at him, still warm from the dryer. “I can’t believe you use that as your stage name.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Kaspbrak, you’re supposed to be folding this laundry, not assaulting me with it. And why wouldn’t I use it in my stage name? All my friends called me that, anyway.”

“Oh, I’m gonna assault you, alright.” Eddie grumbles, rolling his eyes. He stops, though, when Richie throws the towel back at him. It lands on his head, draped almost delicately over his face. He can hear Richie snickering.

“Wow, Eddie, that’s a real improvement on your look, I think. Now I don’t have to see your face.”

“Yeah? It’s really working for me, too, because I can’t see you, either.” He pulls the towel off his face, folding it and setting it aside. “And I don’t care if your friends all called you Trashmouth, that’s a terrible stage name. It makes it sound like you have some kind of disease. Maybe that’s why you’re single. Who’d wanna kiss a guy called _ Trashmouth _?”

“I’ll tell you who never seemed to mind kissing me -”

“Richie, I swear to God if this is a joke about my mom I’m going to kick your ass.”

“It’d be nice to see you try,” Richie ruffles Eddie’s hair as he takes a stack of folded towels and puts them in the linen closet.

After the laundry is put away, the two of them sit side-by-side on the couch. The Losers have made themselves a group chat - a bunch of 40 year olds with a group chat, who’d have fucking thought - and Richie is busy reading Mike’s string of messages about how wonderful Florida is. Eddie’s watching this stupid comedy special and very distinctly not laughing. Hey, Richie told him it was bad.

“Dude, you should fire your writers.”

“What?” Richie looks up from his phone. That was completely out of the blue. “Eddie, I can’t just fire my writers. Did you forget that they write my jokes? The jokes, you know, for my standup comedy show? Keyword: _ comedy _?”

“Don’t act like I’m being stupid.” Eddie glares at him. “I’m being serious, dude. You should fire your writers. You were funny as a kid. You’re funny now, when you’re not being annoying. But your shows aren’t funny.”

“Hey, plenty of people think my shows are funny. That’s why I have fans.”

“I mean, I guess they’re funny objectively. But they’re not as funny as you are. Anyone who knows you can tell you don’t write the material.”

“Hey! That reminds me!” Richie points at him accusingly. “In the chinese restaurant, you said you knew I didn’t write my own jokes. That means you’ve seen my shows, right? Eds, are you secretly a fan?” He grins in a way he knows will get on Eddie’s nerves.

“No.” Eddie insists, but then he falters a little. “I just would see videos of your shows occasionally. I think some part of me recognized you even though I couldn’t actually remember you.”

Richie wants to tease him about that, but he understands. Over the 27 years, he’d read Bill’s books but only because he found himself inexplicably drawn to them. He knows that once he saw Ben’s name on a magazine and he’d stared at that magazine in a trance-like state for an embarrassingly long time. Hell, he’s pretty sure he owns jackets from Bev’s fashion line that he bought despite having no intention of wearing them. He gets what Eddie means, so he doesn’t make fun of him for it.

“That actually makes sense,” he says instead. “I read Bill’s books just because I was weirdly drawn to them as soon as I saw his name on the front.”

“Me, too!” Eddie admits, like he’s relieved he’s not the only one who seemed to have subconsciously remembered his friends. “His endings really do suck.”

“God, they totally do.”

There’s a brief lapse in conversation before Eddie pipes up again.

“I mean it, though. You should fire your writers and start using your own material for your shows.”

Richie frowns down at the groupchat he’s still reading. His manager is already freaking out about this impromptu vacation. He’d have a fit if Richie fired his writers. Still, he files the idea away in the back of his mind.

Two uneventful days follow this conversation. Eddie does not call Myra and tell her the truth, and Richie does not call his manager and admit he wants to fire his writers. Like the state of Eddie’s marriage, the fate of Richie’s career is also left to dangle, avoided at all costs. Distantly, Richie thinks it’s awfully hypocritical of him to encourage Eddie to break the news to Myra when he himself can’t even break the comparatively smaller news to his manager. However, he ignores that thought just the same way he’s ignoring the ever growing urge to bite the bullet and make the call; he expertly dodges thinking about it like he avoids thinking about how he and Eddie will be going back to opposite sides of the country in just about three and a half weeks.

It’s late at night on that second day (the fifteenth total day of Eddie’s recovery,) when the weirdness he’s come to expect begins again. Eddie had gone to bed twenty or so minutes ago, and Richie’s brushing his teeth before he himself hits the hay, listening to the silence of the house. It’s a little eerie, actually, once all the lights are off and everything is still and quiet. He supposes he’ll always be wary of shadowy corners and sewer drains and red balloons, though. Or, at least, that vague uneasiness will linger in the back of his mind as long as he’s in Derry.

He thinks briefly about the nightmares he’s been having. The first one was on the day he washed Eddie’s hair, but that certainly hasn’t been the only one. He frowns around his toothbrush. When Bev had called, she said the nightmares she’d been having about the deadlights have stopped now that It is dead. So why’s he having them, then?

Standing in the bathroom, frozen with his toothbrush in his mouth as he ponders these nightmares, a strange feeling creeps over him. He couldn’t put this feeling into words, not in a way that would make any real sense. It’s just the idea that something big is about to happen. _ There were seven of us that summer _ , he thinks a bit deliriously. His mind latches onto that thought like a vice, rolling it over and over. _ Seven, seven, seven. _ He stares at his reflection in the dirty little mirror above the sink, and a memory hits him out of nowhere. As kids, there had been the Losers, and then there had been everyone else - as if something intrinsically separated them from their peers. He remembers once, before Mike joined their group, randomly thinking that they weren’t all present yet. That idea stayed until the day of the rock fight, and as soon as he’d seen Mike that day it had clicked into place. _ He’s one of us _ , he’d thought. _ We’re all here now. _

It’s like standing with his friends outside Neibolt had felt, like seeing Mike the day of the rock fight, like how he’d felt when Mike’s number had come up on his phone 27 years after that fateful summer. It’s the feeling, deep in the pit of his stomach, that he’s on the precipice of something. It’s the feeling of sitting atop the tallest hill of a rollercoaster, staring down the sloping track and knowing that any second now the car will be set in motion and nothing you do can stop it. It’s the swooping, sinking feeling in his gut that something is only a hair’s breadth away from happening, for better or for worse.

Goosebumps prickling his arms, he finishes brushing his teeth and then walks down the hall and into his room. Crawling into bed does not make the feeling go away, but by some miracle he falls asleep easily anyway.

He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in - it’s a bathroom, clearly, but he feels like he’s been drugged or something because he can’t move. In fact, he can’t feel his body at all, which should be a concern probably, but it’s not. He can’t turn his head and look around, but from his peripherals he can make out a few things - he’s in a bathtub, filled with perfectly still, pale pink water. What the hell’s in this bath to make it that color, anyway? It reminds him in a sick way of the color the water had been when he’d finally gotten to shower after the fight with It, when the water had run off his body and been pink with Eddie’s blood. There’s a shampoo bottle within his line of sight, with a turtle printed on the label. Without the ability to speak or move, it gets boring very quickly, sitting here like this. He tries to read the text on the shampoo bottle just to pass the time, but has very little success.

There’s noise now, but it sounds far away and muffled. Somewhere, he can’t tell if it’s near or far away, something glass shatters. Someone is shrieking, crying, and then there’s a face in his vision. He doesn’t know this woman, but he feels overwhelmed by love and affection for her regardless. She’s the one crying, he realizes belatedly. She moves as if to cradle him, causing his body to shift and thus changing what he can see. On the pristine white tiles of the wall, in staggering red letters, is one very dreadful word.

That scene fades into a different one, like two dreams bleeding into one another and blurring at the edges. This one is harder to understand. There’s pain, and voices that swim through his head without making any sense, and he’s fucking freezing. He’s lying on something hard and chilly. Only one thought seems to come to him through the jumbled mess of his brain._ I died. _ It steals over him, and then he stops trying to make sense of things at all. Again, the scene goes hazy and vanishes the way your conscious thoughts fade when you fall asleep.

This time feels like he’s asleep, but only barely. He can hear steady beeping, a sound he recalls from the time Eddie spent in the hospital. A heart monitor? He tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel far too heavy. He tries again, harder this time, and at the first sight of a sterile white ceiling and fluorescent lights, it feels like he gets whacked in the chest and directly out of his body. For a terrifying moment he feels like he’s speeding through space, not tethered to anything at all. And then - much the same way waking up from the deadlights had felt like having his consciousness slammed back into his body - he feels as though he’s colliding with his own sleeping form at mach speeds.

Richie sits up in bed, breathing heavily. What the fuck was that, an out of body experience? He glances at the clock. 3:47 in the morning. _ Seven _ , he thinks. _ We’re all here now. _

Across the hall, Eddie has bolted upright, hands shaking.

Hundreds of miles away, the other Losers all jerk awake in their beds at exactly 3:47 a.m

At 3:48 in a hospital in Atlanta, Georgia, under the very same sterile ceiling tiles and glaring lights that had sent each Loser spiraling out of their dreams, Stanley Uris opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway reading the book only supports the prophetic/out-of-body experience dream thing. I mean the Losers all are definitely implied to have some form of psychic abilities and characters without those abilities have dreams where they like. get plopped into someone else's body. So that scene is not as strange as it seems, I swear.
> 
> I. uh. hope the dream scene is at least clear in what it's trying to show though.
> 
> Anyway this is late because I was playing Pokemon, I'm sorry,,,


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some talk of Stan's death, so be aware if that kind of thing might bother you.  
Meteor Shower - Cavetown, Stand By me - Ben E. King

Richie doesn’t mention the dream he’d had any more than he mentions the _ other _dreams he’s been having. To be honest, he’d rather have a million weird out-of-body dreams than wake up one more time after reliving the vision he’d had in the deadlights.

There’s no reason to talk about any of this at all, just like there’s no reason to talk about his career, or his feelings for Eddie, or all of the fears he still hasn’t shaken.

All in all, things are kind of fucking hard right now. It was easier when he didn’t remember Derry, or his friends. It was easier, but was it better? Would he want to go back to that?

No, he’s sure of that. He wouldn’t want to forget again, even if it would make things a lot more simple. There’d be no unrequited love he’s too scared to admit, no nightmares, no feeling wildly codependent on the other Losers, no missing Stan, no feeling like he can never look at another clown again in his life. It would just be the same ol’ life he had before the call - a successful, albeit slightly lonely, life.

Yes, things are hard right now, and this Pennywise shit has probably given him so much trauma that it’s almost funny, but he’s happier now than he was before Mike called him

He reminds himself of this as he sits on the couch, knees pulled up to his chest, and watches the stupid infomercial playing on the television. There’s nothing else on at four a.m without cable channels, so he stares at the cd set they’ve been advertising for the last half hour and lets it distract him from the image of Eddie with Pennywise’s arm stuck through his chest.

Maybe if he dreams about it enough, it’ll stop shaking him up so much. He’ll become desensitized to it eventually. That would be second best to the nightmares just stopping, but it doesn’t seem like either one is very likely.

The infomercial plays a snippet of songs from the cd, and he recognizes one. It was playing on the radio the night before Eddie left for college. He remembers the staticy, tinny sound of it playing on the radio in his beat up secondhand car, as he and Eddie sat in silence. Richie had spent so much time floundering for words because there was a lot he’d wanted to say. He hadn’t wanted to make jokes or some crude offhand comment, he’d had important things to say that night. But important, meaningful words were never really his strong suit so he’d sat in the driver’s seat, staring at his clammy hands, and hadn’t said any of what he’d meant to. And Eddie had sat in the passenger seat, twirling one of the tokens from the arcade they’d visited just for old time’s sake, and waited patiently for Richie to find the words he was searching so desperately for.

How would things have been different, if he’d been able to put half of what he was feeling into words that night? Probably not much would change, since Eddie left Derry the next day, but maybe he’d feel better now. It might be stupid, but sometimes he feels like he missed his window of opportunity to be honest with Eddie - his last chance was that night, and he didn’t take it, and now he has to live with the weight of these feelings forever. Maybe if he’d admitted it back then he could have moved on and he wouldn’t even love Eddie now.

No, he thinks he would have loved Eddie even if he’d admitted it and gotten proper closure. He loved him even when he didn’t remember him, didn’t he? If even forgetting his existence wasn’t enough to make him get over it, then confronting it and trying to move on probably wouldn’t have been enough, either.

Telling Eddie how he feels doesn’t even seem like an option at this point. For fuck’s sake, he’s a grown ass man. It’s dumb as hell to still be so hung up on his childhood crush. And besides, Eddie’s got enough to deal with right now. The man almost died, and he’s sorting out his feelings about Myra. It’s not a good time for Richie to drop his own feelings onto Eddie’s shoulders.

Will there ever be a good time? No, there won’t be, and he knows it. There will never be a ‘good’ time to tell your best friend that you’ve been in love with them for the better part of thirty years. So Richie will just have to keep it to himself. Hell, he’s been doing it for so long already, this is nothing new. He can live the rest of his life and not admit he’s in love with Eddie, even though sometimes he thinks the force of his feelings will crush him; sometimes these feelings are far too heavy for him to carry.

They were too much even when he was just a teenager, and now it feels like he has to cope with the weight of both his feelings now and his feelings when he was younger - something about having forgotten Eddie before he had a chance to fully come to terms with things makes him feel like now he’s facing both his current emotions and trying to get closure on the emotions he didn’t have a chance to make sense of when he was younger.

It would be nice to admit how he feels, just like it would be nice to finally come out. It’s not even that he hasn’t come to terms with everything - he accepted both his sexuality and his love for Eddie a long time ago. The thing that stops him is fear of other peoples’ reactions. What would his friends think of him if he came out? Or his fans? His family? And how would Eddie react if he knew that Richie loved him? There’s too much at stake; too many relationships he fears would be at risk.

He thinks this, and then he laughs. He’s 40 years old and still so deep in the closet that he’s not sure he’ll ever find his way out. It’s not funny, not really, but he laughs anyway.

How _ would _ Eddie react if he knew how Richie feels? Richie’s brain does some fucked up thing, picturing both Eddie as he was: inhaler and short-shorts and somehow the bravest and most scared of the group, and Eddie as he is: a scar on his cheek, a wife he never loved, and enough guts to throw a fire poker through Pennywise’s mouth but not enough to grab a knife and stab Spider-Stanley. It’s like someone stacked two photos on top of each other in his mind’s eye, and he realizes how much Eddie hasn’t changed - how much they, as a group, truly haven’t changed. And then he realizes that Eddie, little hypochondriac Eddie, wouldn’t hate him. It’s easy to think that he would. It’s easy to think the worst. But Eddie’s his best friend. Eddie’s been his best friend since they were just dumbass little kids. Richie knows that Eddie does love him, even if it’s not in the same way he loves Eddie. He could tell Eddie right this second how he feels and Eddie wouldn’t hate him. Something deep in his soul whispers to him, saying _ “You know he could never hate you. None of them could ever hate you.” _

And, well, if he cries a little, it’s not really important.

He’s still sitting there on the couch when the sun peeks it’s cheery face over the horizon and stretches it’s long warm rays over the dreary morning. Day 19 of Eddie’s recovery has begun, and to be honest Richie couldn’t be less enthusiastic about it if he tried.

It’s already daybreak now, and it’s far too late to go back to bed - not that he’d get any sleep, anyway - so he accepts he’s going into today having gotten very little rest.

He moves like a ghost through the house, as quiet as possible. Not because he thinks he’ll wake Eddie, but because being up at this hour, as the dawn light filters in through the blinds and bathes the tacky wallpaper in washed out grey, makes him feel like he has to be quiet; a mouse sneaking through the halls of this place he can’t quite bring himself to feel at home in. As happy as he’s been here with Eddie, he suspects he’ll never feel truly at home in Derry ever again. Not like he did as a child.

But then did he ever feel very much at home in his empty, lonely apartment back in California, either? Here, in this old house, is better than that at least. It has nothing to do with location, though, and everything to do with the company he’s been keeping.

Presently, he’s in the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee and distracting himself from his thoughts by guessing how old the linoleum on the floor is. His phone ringing startles him so badly that he almost knocks his coffee mug off the counter. Who the fuck is calling him at just past six in the morning?

That’s not a number he knows, but the sight of the digits on the screen sends a chill down his spine for reasons he couldn’t possibly place. He has every intention of swiping to reject the call and putting his phone in his pocket, despite the wriggling feeling telling him he should answer it. It’s probably just a telemarketer, or someone trying to scam him. Who else would call from a number he doesn’t know at this hour?

He only realizes he’s answered the call when he’s got the phone to his ear.

“Hello? Is this Richie Tozier?” The voice on the other end sounds about as unsure as Richie feels, and something in Richie reacts desperately at the sound of the voice. This man sounds familiar, Richie could swear he’s heard this voice before. And, well, clearly the man knows him.

“Uh, yeah, this is he.”

“Oh, good. Richie, it’s -”

It clicks into place before the mystery man can finish his sentence, and a wave of vertigo overtakes Richie. His full coffee mug clatters to the floor, shattering on the worn linoleum. Ceramic skitters across the floor in pieces and hot coffee splashes onto Richie’s bare feet.

“Stan Uris.” They both say at the same time.

“... Yeah.” Stan says lamely. “How’ve you been, Rich?”

Richie stares at the splintered ceramic on the floor, taking a deep breath.

“I’m getting by.” He says, shooting for casual and falling humiliatingly short. “What about you, man?” His voice trembles.

“I… well, dead, I guess.” Stanley sounds like he’s having as much trouble with this as Richie is, and Richie remembers suddenly one key detail about Stan: he hated the Pennywise thing not because he was scared, but because it offended his good sense. There are things that can be, and things that cannot be, and Pennywise by all accounts should have fallen under “cannot.” Stanley had hated Pennywise because It shouldn’t have been possible. Most children can see impossible things and simply move on, simply incorporate that into their understanding of the world, but Stanley never could.

And, well, Richie supposes that rising from the dead is another thing that might offend a good man’s logical sense.

“What even happened?” Riche asks, but he knows. He saw it, didn’t he, in that weird dream?

“I couldn’t really tell you,” Stan sighs. “I remember being in the bathtub at home, and next thing I know I’m waking up in a hospital. Patty’s pretty shaken up, but she told me that she called 911 when she found me. They brought me to the hospital, I guess, and tried to save me but I… I was definitely dead. Doctors say I started speaking while in the morgue, scared the hell out of some poor guy.”

“Shit, Stan. And you’re… you’re okay now?”

“Yes. I came home from the hospital yesterday, and I’m totally fine. The only evidence of what happened are some scars on my wrists.”

“How the hell’d you get my number, anyway?” Richie asks, just to change the subject because this is too much for him right now. He sniffles as the emotions catch up to him, but if Stan knows he’s crying, he doesn’t mention it.

“Actually, I called Mike first. I had his number from where he called me before. He gave me everyone else’s numbers. Then I called Bill, and then you.”

“So only Mike, Bill, and I know right now?”

“Yeah. I was going to call Eddie next.”

“Don’t bother,” Richie wipes his eyes with the back of his arm, drawing in a heavy breath. “He’s with me. I’ll put him on. Let me go wake him up.” A pause. “I’m glad you’re alright, Stan The man. We missed you, dude.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Richie knocks on Eddie’s door, then peeps his head inside. Eddie looks like he’s barely awake - the knocking must’ve woken him.

“Phone call, Eds.”

He squints through bleary eyes.

“Are you crying, Richie? What’s going on? Who’s on the phone?”

Richie just hands him the phone and makes himself scarce, leaving Eddie to talk to Stan in private while he cleans the broken mug and spilled coffee off the kitchen floor. He wonders if Stan knows everything they’ve been through, if he knows they killed It. He wants to talk to him more, to tell him what went down and to catch up with his friend. He didn’t get to have a reunion with Stan at the chinese restaurant, he hasn’t spoken to Stan since they were teenagers. But he knows Stan has more phone calls to make - Bev and Ben still don’t know that he’s alive, after all. Catching up will have to wait for another day. And, with an unusual lightness in his heart despite his teary eyes, Richie realizes that now there will actually be another day - there will be another day for Stan, and for Eddie, and for each and everyone one of the seven of them.

_ There were seven of us then _ , he thinks. _ And there are seven of us now, too. We’re all together. The circle closes. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late - I ended up scrapping what I had already written and restarting this chapter from scratch, and on top of that I hit a rough patch with my mental health so productivity dropped to pretty much zero. Thank you for being patient, though!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went absolutely off-the-rails with the soft, tender content in this chapter.
> 
> Taylor Swift - Lover, Mitski - Two Slow Dancers

In the coming days, Stan gets added to their group chat. He doesn’t seem to have a lot to say, but boy does everyone else have a lot of things to say to him. Everyone is very curious about what happened, and they all are eager to catch up with him.  He answers their questions  amiably  , telling the other Losers about the life he’s been leading since he left Derry  .  He appears to be doing well, all things considered, but he hasn’t recovered as many of his memories as the rest of the group  .  Mike suspects it’s only because he hasn’t had as much time to remember things - he has, after all, been dead for most of the past few weeks, while everyone else has been  steadily  recovering their lost memories .

It’s wonderful that Stan is alive and well; it’s nothing short of a miracle. And knowing that all six of the other Losers are safe has done a lot to improve Richie’s mood.

Not to say everything is perfect, not by a long shot.  It’s starting to feel like there’s a countdown clock, ticking away, reminding him that each passing minute only brings him closer to the day he and Eddie will have to go their separate ways . That thought alone is enough to squash his heart into a fine dust, but he could never vocalize that feeling. He could definitely never vocalize it to Eddie, especially.

He’s also not sleeping well. Shocking, isn’t it, that having vivid dreams about the man you love dying messes with your quality of sleep a bit? He’s awake most mornings before Eddie is now, which is weird and he knows it is. At this point, Eddie would have to be blind to not know something is going on.  Yet he doesn’t say anything about all the mornings he comes into the living room and sees Richie half-asleep on the couch  .  He doesn't mention the days he finds Richie at the kitchen table having breakfast, dark circles under his half-lidded eyes  .  Richie is thankful for that, at least, because he’s not ready to tell anyone what he saw in the deadlights, and he’s not ready to admit it’s still haunting him this way  .  If he had to talk to anyone about it, he’d choose Bev - due in one part because he’s close with Bev, and in a much larger part because she also  was plagued by  similar nightmares  . He suspects that if he’s still having the dreams then they can’t  be caused by  It like Bev’s were. That means it’s his own psyche betraying him like this. He’s sure Bev would tell him he needs to see a therapist. The idea almost makes him laugh. The whole lot of ‘em could  probably  use a therapist after the shit they’ve seen. Not that any sane human being would believe a word of what they say.

He feels like his nightmares have gotten worse in the four or so days since Stan called. He wakes tonight, like most nights recently, with a feeling of crushing grief bubbling up in his chest. Except tonight he’s not alone, he realizes a little late. There’s a figure hovering over his bed, reaching through the dark towards him.

Richie shrieks in a way he’ll deny later, scuttling across the mattress, away from the mysterious person and right off the opposite side of the bed . He falls with a thud onto his ass in a tangle of blankets.

“Richie!” Eddie exclaims, voice bouncing between concern and laughter. “It’s me!”

“I knew that.” He peeps his head over the edge of the mattress. It’s pitch black and he doesn’t have his glasses on, so he can’t see anything from over here. God, his eyes are shit. He hears shuffling, and then Eddie’s crawling across the bed and placing Richie’s glasses on his face. Now Eddie’s own face, standing out only a bit from the deep shadows of the room, comes into focus. “Is there a reason you’re standing over me like a creep while I sleep, Eds?”

“I wasn’t, asshole! I heard you fucking shouting so I came to make sure you weren’t in here dying or some shit.”

“What if I’d been masturbating? What then? Do you go following every weird noise you hear your friends make?” He pulls himself up off the floor, losing his balance for a moment as he untangles his legs from the blanket.

“I should have  just  let you die in your sleep.” Richie can’t see for sure through the blackness, but Eddie’s voice sounds like he’s rolling his eyes. “  Really , what the hell was going on in here? I was going to wake you up, but you woke up on your own.” The lamp beside the bed flashes on, and Richie can see a mix of worry and exasperation in Eddie’s features.

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry your pretty little head, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddie sits back on his knees, and the mattress squeaks with the movement.

“Were you having a nightmare?” He asks, plucking the question right out of the blue. “Have you been having them? Is that why you’ve been so tired lately?”

“No.” Richie lies, because he’s incapable of being vulnerable for two seconds.  The room drops into uncomfortable silence, Eddie scrutinizing Richie with harsh eyes and the ghost of a scowl on his face . Richie sits on the edge of the bed and avoids eye contact.

“You can be honest with me, you know. It won’t kill you, I promise.” Eddie sounds a little bit sarcastic, and Richie knows he only means ‘Don’t lie to me, asshole, I know the truth anyway.’

A very bitter part of Richie’s brain recoils at his words.  Eddie only meant he could be truthful about the nightmares, but Richie can’t help but linger on the thought of being honest with Eddie  .  Oh, there’s a lot he could be honest about: the nightmares, his feelings, how  desperately  he doesn’t want to go back to California if it means Eddie will go back to New York and they’ll be on opposite sides of the country . There’s a lot he could be honest about; should be honest about; and he can’t make himself say any of it.

”It won’t kill me, but it’ll make me wish it had,” he only half-jokes. Eddie doesn’t laugh, though, and Richie feels his palms start to sweat. A swing and a miss, Tozier, try a different joke.

Except he doesn’t have any other jokes to make. So he flops back onto the mattress, throwing an arm over his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the way Eddie’s looking at him. Eddie is quiet for a moment, before sighing and laying down next to his friend.

The tense silence begins to shift after a moment, twisting and morphing into something less stifling  . On the mattress between them, their hands lay mere centimeters apart. Richie moves to hold Eddie’s hand.  But then thinks twice about it and abandons the motion, settling instead for pressing the side of his hand against the side of Eddie’s in a barely-there touch .

He braves a glance at Eddie and finds he’s staring at the popcorn texture of the ceiling. He’s  probably  thinking about something stupid, like if there’s asbestos in the ugly old plaster.

“Penny for your thoughts, Eds?”

“Just  wondering when this house  was built . It looks old as shit.”

Jesus, he actually might be thinking about asbestos in the ceiling.

“You know what? If your thoughts are about asbestos in the house, I’ll give you a dime to keep ‘em to yourself.”

“What?” Eddie turns his head to glare at Richie. “Why would I be thinking about asbestos?”

“Because that’s exactly the kind of thing you’d worry about.”

“I was actually wondering how long this house has been here. I don’t remember it being here when we were kids. That’s all.”

Richie shrugs. “Maybe  it’s new and whoever owns it wanted it to look older than dirt.”

“Why would they want the place to look like you?”

“Wow, Eddie, you wound me. Cut me real deep.” It’s quiet for a moment, with only the sound of their breathing to fill the lull in conversation.  “Man, all our friends gave me a hard time for being an annoying little shit as a kid, but you never got credit for being annoying, too. What kind of double standard is that?”

“Me? If I was ever annoying it’s because you started something.”

Richie snorts. “As if. You were plenty annoying on your own. I remember once you came by my house while I was raking leaves in the front lawn and you kicked all my leaf piles.”  He doesn’t mention how they’d ended up wrestling in the crunchy orange-brown leaves, or how he wasn’t even mad that he’d had to redo the raking .

“Like that’s even comparable to the jokes you used to make about everyone’s moms.”

“Oh, no, Eds, you’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t everyone’s mom, only yours. And they were never jokes.”

"Just  in case you missed it, that type of joke stopped being funny about thirty years ago. You haven’t been able to find any new material in all that time?”

“Just  in case you missed it, your mom and I have been in love for about thirty years. You haven’t come to terms with it in all that time?”

“In case you missed it, you’re the fucking worst.”

“In case you missed it, I’m choosing to stay in shithole Derry to look after you, so can I  really  be all that bad?”

Eddie laughs a little, a sudden sound in the middle of their conversation. “How did our friends ever tolerate us bickering all the time as kids?”

“With a lot of patience.” He thinks about it for a moment. Sure, they bickered and bantered all the time back then (and still do now,) but they never meant it. That was their thing - Richie would annoy the piss out of Eddie, and Eddie would always come back with his own retort. It’s a familiar routine by now, and one Richie finds comfort in.  He always did like getting a rise out of Eddie - did anyone actually think he ever forgot about the ten minute time limit in the clubhouse hammock ? He knew Eddie would be mad if he stayed past his ten minutes. Like so many other things he did, he knew it would get a reaction out of him.

But at the end of the day, he also knew Eddie was never mad at him for antagonizing him all the time. He always knew Eddie would have his back; that Eddie would be there for him. Sure, he overstepped a few times, and it always felt like garbage when Eddie was actually upset with him. But for the most part he knew it was all part of their dynamic.

It’s an easy dynamic to fall back into. As soon as he’d seen his friends in The Jade of the Orient, he’d slipped right back into the role of 13-year-old Richie Tozier.  Maybe  he never outgrew that role, and all the time away from Derry he was only playing the part of grown up Richie. In retrospect, sometimes it felt like he was only playing a part.

Being reunited with the Losers, though, hasn’t felt at all like “ just  playing a role.” It’s felt genuine and natural. Being with Eddie has felt genuine and natural. If he’s only playing a part, then it’s a part he was born to play.

Going into the Jade of the Orient that day, he’d  been scared  . Damn near shaking in his boots, if he’s honest. He’d  been scared  of Pennywise, of course, but he’d also been afraid to see the Losers again after so long.  It’s a special sort of terror, knowing these people were once the most important people in the world to you and that you have to see them now, decades later and knowing nothing of who they became .

At first it was hard to reconcile the adults he saw in the restaurant with the kids he remembered. But as the night wore on, being around them became second nature. If he had spent his adult life feeling like something was missing, then he thinks they all had, too. And that night he found out what, exactly, had been missing: his friends, and their memories, both good and bad. He loved the Losers all so much as a kid; he loved them in a way more fierce than he knew he could. He still does. Three decades without them didn’t change that one bit.

And he’d loved Eddie in a unique, gut-wrenching way. He’d loved Eddie in the way the moon loves the sun: distant by necessity, but awed and enamored despite that.  He’d loved Eddie the way the evening sky loves the ocean: red-orange and warm, and if he could have, he’d have blurred their edges until their forms were indistinguishable from one another, the way the ocean and sky blur together on the horizon. He’d loved Eddie in a way that made his palms sweat and his heart flutter and his stomach do funny little flips. He’d loved Eddie more than he’d feared the things they saw that summer; more than he knew how to carry within himself.

None of that has changed, either.

“I was afraid to see everyone that night at the chinese restaurant,” he admits.

“Me, too,” Eddie whispers, and then he takes Richie’s hand in his own.  There’s a split second where Richie remembers how, when Eddie was in the hospital, Richie had held Eddie's hand the same way . They lay there for a long time in an easy kind of quiet. Something about it makes Richie feel both like he’s going to burst and like he could exist in this moment forever. Eddie’s hand is warm and his presence is soothing.

Richie feels the words right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could say it, right now. He could tell Eddie how he feels. It would be so easy. Eddie would reject him, but that doesn’t seem important. It seems more important that Eddie knows. He came so close to dying only a few weeks ago. He came so close to dying before Richie ever could even think about telling him the truth. It would be like nothing to whisper those words into the still air of the bedroom; to let them hang there.  He's spent so long with these feelings rattling around inside of him, and for once he thinks he could find the courage to finally let them out .

It would be the easiest thing in the world, Richie thinks, but he still doesn’t do it. Instead, he stares at the popcorn ceiling and tries to memorize the feeling of Eddie’s hand in his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be just the first half of a chapter, but uhhhh I really went all in on the soft emotions and it got away from me. The last few chapters have been so plot-focused and I felt like the fic was lacking in good ol' fashioned lovey, pining content.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of Eddie's death in the movie
> 
> One Direction - A.M, American Pleasure Club - All the Lonely Nights in Your Life

Richie doesn’t mean to fall asleep. One minute he’s laying in the silence next to Eddie, far too deep in his own thoughts, and the next he’s squinting through the dim bedroom and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He must’ve really crashed last night, he doesn’t even remember dozing off in the first place. He doesn’t remember the light getting turned off, or tucking himself under the blankets, or even taking off his glasses.

Then he looks to his right and sees Eddie’s form on the mattress next to him. A few different thoughts run through his mind at once, in no particular order. One, Eddie’s still here. Two, he must have been the one to drape the blanket over Richie during the night and take Richie’s glasses off his face. Three, besides the one Eddie woke him from, he didn’t have a nightmare last night. And four, Eddie is awake and looking at him. Now that he’s becoming a bit more alert, he doesn’t know how he didn’t notice Eddie sooner - they aren’t touching beneath the blanket they’re sharing, but it’s a near thing.

They lay on opposite sides of the bed for a moment, Richie wracking his brain for something to say, and feeling much more tense than he should. This isn’t a big deal, he tells himself. He and Eddie shared beds and stuff all the time as kids: crashing on the floor at group sleepovers, laying side-by-side in the hammock, crammed together between their friends on someone’s living room couch. This isn’t new or weird, and if preteen Richie could handle it, Richie now can handle it.

He might be giving himself too much credit. He thought he could handle a lot of things, such as living with Eddie for six weeks, and it’s starting to seem like he’d overestimated himself on that front. Based on the way his palms sweat and he can’t think of a single thing to say as he lays there, face mere inches away from Eddie’s on the pillows, it appears he can’t handle this, either.

It’s not that he’s never been close with Eddie like this, it’s just that it was different when they were kids. Kids can share chairs, and sit on each other’s lap in the photo booth because there’s not enough space, or crash in the same bed after staying up too late, and it’s not weird at all. But adults can’t do those things; adults can’t be that close unless they’re romantically involved. It’s not that he’s uncomfortable being close to Eddie, it’s that there’s an expectation of how he, as a grown man, should act - and sharing a bed with his best friend, close enough that their bodies are a hair’s breadth away from touching, is not part of that. That’s something couples do; this whole situation is something only couples do.

“Good Morning,” Eddie finally speaks up, which is good because Richie isn’t sure he’d have ever found his voice on his own.

“Mornin’ Eds. Where’d you put my glasses?”

“Don’t call me that. They’re on the nightstand.”

Richie grabs at the nightstand without looking, fumbling for his glasses. Then he rolls over to face Eddie, the pillow pressing into the side of his face and skewing the glasses he just put on.

“I wasn’t really expecting you’d still be here.” He admits. “Figured you’d make like a tree and leaf.”

“You’re really gonna start with the jokes this early?” Eddie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t offer any explanation as to why he stayed.

“Is there a reason you stayed, or…?”

Eddie shrugs. “Why’d you stay in Derry with me?”

Why did he stay? What kind of dumb question is that? He stayed because he cares, because he wanted to be sure Eddie was alright.

_ Oh _ , he thinks. _ Eddie stayed for the same reasons. He stayed because he was concerned. _The realization makes his heart leap into his throat. Of course he knows Eddie cares, but it’s still surprising that Eddie stayed here all night just to be sure Richie was okay.

“Why do you ask?” Eddie says.

“Dunno. Just surprised you slept in here.”

“Is it really surprising? We did this kind of shit all the time as kids, right?”

“Did what kind of shit?”

“Slept together, shared beds, you know.”

“Excuse you, Edward, but I didn’t sleep with anyone as a kid. I was a _ kid _.”

“Fuck you, you know I didn’t mean it like that. And besides, according to Richie at approximately thirteen, he’d slept with all kinds of people, mostly my mother.”

“Oh she was the exception, dear Eddie. We were going to get married, actually. I would’ve been your step-dad, but your mom just thought that’d be too hard on you.”

“God, don’t you ever shut up? Do you have an off button or something?”

“You should know by now that I don’t. If you want me to be quiet you’re going to have to do something about me yourself.”

“I swear to God I’m gonna smother you with a pillow.”

“Not if I smother you first.” Richie yanks the pillow out from beneath his own head and presses it over Eddie’s face lightly. Eddie splutters, pushing him away and giving him a playful kick for good measure. Richie puts on the theatrics, pretending the shove was devastating and painful as he collapses back onto the mattress, coming close to knocking heads with Eddie in the process.

“Watch what you’re doing, man, you almost fell right on top of me.”

“Eds, I was _ fainting. _I couldn’t see where your face was.” He teases, and is not deterred in the slightest when Eddie just gives him a glare.

“If you give me a black eye I’m going to have Bill come help me for the rest of the recovery and you can go home.”

“You’d fire me?”

“If this was a job, I’d have fired you weeks ago.”

“No you wouldn’t. Admit it, Eddie. You like having me around.”

“I like knowing you have to do the housework and I don’t, maybe.”

“That’s all I am to you, huh? A maid? I’m the help?”

“Eh. Maids usually get paid. You’re here by your own choice and there’s no way I’d pay you. I guess you’re more like a volunteer at an animal shelter or something.”

“Guess that makes you the mangy, ugly dog I’m taking care of, huh?”

“You’re taking care of yourself, you’re only _ helping _ me. I think that makes _ you _the ugly stray dog.”

Richie snorts. “Alright, you got me, Eds.”

This is easy. Being with Eddie is so simple, it comes so naturally. If they could stay in this moment - laying nearly nose-to-nose on the bed in the quiet morning, breath falling warm across each other’s skin, making bad jokes and picking on one another, Richie would be happy. Just being here, just having this time with Eddie after what almost happened fighting It, is enough for Richie.

Mid-morning sunlight falls through the blinds in slanted shapes across Eddie’s form - it catches in his brown eyes and mixes with the mirth there, it highlights the fresh pink scar on his cheek, it drapes itself over the curve of his shoulder and the line of his hip. If Richie wasn’t in love already, this would be the moment he’d fall in love, he thinks.

As if he hasn’t had a million of those picture perfect, falling-in-love moments with Eddie. As if each one didn’t make him fall in love again, regardless of the fact that he had already fallen. A lifetime of little things, all piled up until he couldn’t imagine _ not _loving Eddie. Countless dreary summer evenings or rainy spring days; a million moments of laughter; endless amounts of stupid jokes, dumb nicknames, and making teasing jabs at each other. And a fair number of quieter, gloomier moments, too - confiding in one another, supporting and being supported in return.

No, he can’t imagine not loving Eddie. And the more time he spends here, the more he _ can _imagine telling Eddie how he feels. Eddie deserves to know, doesn’t he? If one of his friends had secret feelings for Richie, he’d want them to tell him. He should treat Eddie the way he’d want to be treated - he should be honest. Right?

Eddie’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You’re going to have to start washing your sheets once a week if I’m going to be sleeping in here, you know.”

“What? Who says you’re going to be sleeping in here? This house has two bedrooms, in case you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget, asshole! But you sure slept like the damn dead last night, and if me being here helps with the nightmares then I’m sleeping in here.” Eddie’s tone leaves no room for argument, but Richie finds a little room anyway.

“Who said I was having nightmares, anyway? And if I was having them, I don’t think you can say you being here helped after only one night. That’s a tiny sample size, Eds. Not enough data.”

“There’s not enough data in your brain, maybe. I’m not stupid. You obviously haven’t been sleeping well. Did you think I hadn’t noticed anything going on? There’s all the mornings you’re awake before me, or the days you doze off on the couch, and times like last night where you shout in your sleep… anyone who can rub two brain cells together can see you’re having nightmares. Nightmares about me, I think, because I know some nights you come check on me after having one. It wakes me up sometimes when you come into the room.”

Richie’s taken aback for a moment because there’s a slight edge to Eddie’s voice. It’s not the sarcastic one he’s used to, but something with real heat behind it. He seems actually kind of bothered and upset about this, and that gives Richie pause. Of course Eddie noticed things, and of course he’s bothered right now - he’s worried about Richie and Richie is being evasive.

“Sorry, Eds,” he offers, and he means it. “I didn’t think you knew, and I didn’t really want to talk about it.” Apologizing isn’t usually his style, but he feels bad that he’s been making Eddie worry.

“Oh.” Eddie’s voice drops into an apologetic tone of it’s own. “It’s fine, man, you don’t have to talk about it. I was just worried.”

“Truth is, yeah I’ve been having nightmares. Saw some pretty fucked up things when I was in the deadlights, you know. Dunno why Bev’s dreams have stopped and mine haven’t, but…” Richie shrugs.

Eddie is looking at him, expression open and patient, and it makes Richie feel both comforted and nervous. He doesn’t ask any questions, just waits for Richie to continue speaking.

“And, yeah, the dreams have been about you. You dying, specifically.” He finally admits, and feels stupid just saying it aloud. It’s dumb, it’s been more than three weeks since everything happened, he should be over it by now. Everyone else seems to be, at least.

“You saw me die in the deadlights? Christ.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t great.” Richie says, voice cracking a bit. “‘Come back to Derry’ Mike said. Well, he never said a damn thing about watching my best friend die. What a load of shit.”

“I’m alive, though.”

“Already watched you get slaughtered by that damn clown, anyways.” Richie scoffs, and then both men stop. Richie hadn’t meant to let that much out, hadn’t meant for Eddie to know any of the actual details of the view he’d gotten in the deadlights. He hadn’t meant for Eddie to know just how close he had come to dying in that sewer.

Eddie’s brows furrow, putting together the pieces Richie hadn’t meant to let slip.

“If you hadn’t moved us, I would have died when Pennywise stabbed me.” Is all he says when he finally speaks. “You knew It was going to kill me, that’s why you knew we needed to move. When I asked before, you told me you could see It behind me and that’s how you knew. But that was a lie. You knew because you’d seen It kill me in the deadlights.”

Richie tugs at a loose thread on the blanket, avoiding eye contact. “...Yeah.”

“Shit. You should have told me.”

“Why would I tell you that? ‘Oh, hey, Eddie, just wanted to let you know I had a vision in the deadlights where Pennywise stabbed you right through the chest and you died in the fucking Derry sewers! If we hadn’t moved when we did, that’s what would have happened. How horrific, huh? I know!’”

“I meant maybe you would have felt better if you’d talked to someone!”

“Forgive me for not wanting to regale you with the gruesome tale of how you would have been killed by a clown arm through the chest.”

“You really saved my ass, huh?” He nudges Richie’s leg with his foot, smiling a little despite the grim topic “You’re the reason things didn’t play out the same way as the vision you had in the deadlights, right? You’re the one that made me move, after all.”

“No, come on, don’t do that. Don’t pull that mushy, ‘You saved me!’ shit, dude.”

“I can’t even thank you for literally saving my damn life?”

“No! I don’t wanna hear any of it! I did what I had to do to help my friend, and that’s it! That’s the end of it!” Listening to Eddie be so appreciative is too much for Richie, because he doesn’t deserve the gratitude at all. He doesn’t deserve any kudos for saving Eddie because any one of the Losers would have done the same for him. They would all lay down their lives for one another, of _ course _he saved Eddie when he had the chance.

Eddie frowns at him, but when he speaks again it’s not about how Richie saved him. “If you don’t want me to sleep in here, by the way, I won’t. I thought it might help, since I know you tend to check on me after a nightmare.”

“Well, I mean, one night isn’t enough data to draw any conclusions. I’d, uh, be willing to give it a try. Collect a little more data before making a decision. Besides, if I can’t share my bed with Mrs. Kaspbrak then you’re the second best choice.”

“God you’re the worst,” Eddie groans, shoving Richie’s face down into the pillows. But then things get quiet and still, the playful atmosphere dissolving naturally. 

“Thanks for all this, Eds.” Richie says, voice almost a whisper.

“For what?” The ghost of a smile dances across his face. “For being worried about you? You’re my friend, asshole, did you think I was going to ignore it when something’s clearly bothering you?”

Richie doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Eddie’s face, so different and still so much like the kid he knew, and knows he can’t go back home after this. He’d been dreading it before, but he’s sure now he simply won’t be able to do it. He missed so much time, and he can’t bring himself to give up any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a good holiday season! I'm trying to fix a nasty adverb habit I have, so editing took longer than usual... plus, the holidays & my birthday kept me busy. But things are slowing down now, so updates will happen more often :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some references to abuse but like veerrryyy vague. Overall a low mood sorta chapter, though  
P!atd - Impossible Year  
James Bay - Us

After the first night of sharing a bed, things change. The first big change is that Richie knows when he turns in for the night, he’ll find Eddie already snoozing on the left side of Richie’s bed. The nightmares don’t stop, but it’s a little easier to deal with them. Now when he wakes with the image of Eddie’s still, lifeless form etched into the backs of his eyelids, he only has to reach across the few inches of mattress and find Eddie’s body next to him; only has to listen carefully to hear the other man’s slow breathing and know the dream was just that: a dream. Some nights his nightmares wake Eddie, who sits with him in the dark until he feels calm. So although the nightmares haven’t stopped, Richie has found it’s easier to get back to sleep after having one.

The other changes are smaller, but Richie notices them all the same. They sit a little closer while watching bad movies on t.v, Richie finds it easier than ever to ruffle Eddie’s hair or bump their hands together. It’s like when they were kids and could put an arm around each other’s shoulders, or sit pressed together side-by-side, with no looming idea that any contact would be out of line. Once they wake in Richie’s bed with their legs tangled together and Richie doesn’t even feel weird about it for a single second.

And, of course, Edddie’s recovery is progressing and that brings its own changes. Eddie is a lot more self sufficient now than he’d been at first. In fact, he hardly needs Richie anymore. He still can’t lift anything heavy, and he still has pain if he tries anything too ambitious, but he can cook meals and help with easier housework. It’s just a matter of time until he’s back at one hundred percent.

Today is day 29 of Eddie’s recovery. Richie steps inside the house, a few grocery bags in one hand and a bag of takeout food in the other.

“Eddie,” he calls, “I got us lunch while I was out buying milk.”

Eddie, who’d been sitting on the couch reading one of Bill’s books when Richie left half an hour ago, is now pacing the room, phone to his ear. His hands are trembling as he shushes Richie.

“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Eddie almost whispers into the phone. “Yes, I’m okay. I’m fine, but....” Eddie pauses, then squeezes his eyes shut, wincing at whatever is said to him. “I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath, pressing his mouth into a thin line. “Myra, there’s no easy way to say this…”

Richie hears the name ‘Myra’ and decides this probably isn’t a conversation he should stick around for. He disappears into the kitchen, busying himself putting away the few groceries he’d bought and trying not to overhear anything.

Myra… Eddie really called her. They talked about it ages ago, and then nothing else seemed to come of it. Richie had sort of assumed that was the end of it - Eddie would never find the courage to tell her the truth, and after the six weeks here he’d go home to a marriage he never really wanted.

He’s relieved to know he’d been wrong. He wants Eddie to be happy, after all, and being with Myra obviously doesn’t make him happy.

Richie still hasn’t even had the guts to call his agent and talk about firing his writers. Eddie has a reputation among their group for being easily scared, but sometimes it sure feels like Richie’s the cowardly one. Maybe, once all of this is over and he can talk to his agent face to face, he’ll mention writing his own material. He’d be a hypocrite if he didn’t, wouldn’t he? After all, he encouraged Eddie to be honest with Myra… the least he can do is take his own advice and be up front with his agent.

Would it make him a hypocrite if he never tells Eddie the truth?

_ Practice what you preach, Tozier,  _ he thinks. It’s a bitter, unpleasant thought.

Eddie’s hands are still shaking when he hangs up the phone and comes into the kitchen. He and Richie sit together at the table to eat the food Richie had brought them - it’s gone cold by now, but Richie doesn’t mind.

After an excruciating stretch of silence, Richie finally speaks up.

“Who was on the phone?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know already.

“Myra.” 

“Oh… How did that go?”

“As well as it could. She was upset, but it doesn’t seem like she’s going to things more difficult than they need to be. I haven’t done the paperwork yet, but I plan to start tonight.” Eddie sighs.

“So it’ll work out? That’s good. I’m glad you called her.”

“Yes,” Eddie says, pushing food around in the plastic takeout container. He doesn’t sound very happy despite saying things went well overall, but Richie supposes it’s a shitty situation to be in even if things work out.

Eddie’s mood doesn’t lift all day, stress hanging over him like a cloud. There’s nothing Richie can do to make this easier, of course, but God damn he wishes that wasn’t the case.

Richie goes to bed before Eddie for once, but he’s still awake when Eddie crawls into bed more than an hour later.

“Hey, Eds.” He whispers through the darkness. He can’t see Eddie’s form, but he feels the mattress shift as the other man settles. There’ve been nights that Eddie’s sat up and comforted Richie after a nightmare, so this heavy mood weighing down on them isn’t new. It’s rare that Richie’s on the other side of things, though. He reaches a hand through the maze of blankets and across cold sheets to find Eddie’s hand, twining their fingers together.

Eddie’s voice is small and uncertain, almost drowned out by crickets chirping outside. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Eddie shuffles closer and Richie lets him; opens his arms and lets Eddie scoot right into his embrace. They lay like that in the sad, blue atmosphere of the room, Eddie curled with his head against Richie’s chest. Richie holds him and hopes he knows that doing what’s best for yourself doesn’t make you selfish - that leaving a bad relationship doesn’t make you a bad person, even if it’s hard and even if it upsets the other person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is on the shorter side, sorry! I had planned it to be longer, but this felt like such a natural place to end it and I didn't like how it flowed into the next part when kept as one long chapter.  
We're nearing the end, guys!! By my estimates, only three more chapters left! I'm a little sad to be saying that...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Growlers - Black Memories, My Chemical Romance - Summertime

Eddie’s mood doesn’t seem to improve much in the coming days. Richie’s never gotten a divorce before so he hasn’t the slightest idea what the process is like, and he doesn’t pry into things. He doesn’t need to know all the gritty details.

Three days after the call to Myra, however, Richie decides he’s had enough of watching Eddie fret and second guess himself. Maybe, as far as the divorce is concerned, Richie can only offer reassurance and support to his friend. He can do more to lift his friend’s spirits, though.

“Alright,” he plucks the t.v remote from Eddie’s hands. “Put your shoes on, we’re going out.”

“What?”

“Dude, you’ve been cooped up here for weeks. You haven’t even gone to the grocery store with me. I’m supposed to be looking out for your best interests, and I say you could probably use some fresh air and a view of something besides this tragic wallpaper. You’re doing well, right? Pretty far into your recovery? You can handle going out for a while?”

“That depends, what are we doing?”

“I’m not gonna make you go hiking or anything, man. Put your shoes on and we’ll go out for dinner. I’m running out of things I know how to cook, anyway.”

“Yeah, alright. Guess I am going a little stir-crazy.”

They drive through the streets of Derry, looking for somewhere to have dinner. Their original plan was to find someplace they’d liked as kids, just for nostalgia’s sake. But Derry has changed a lot since they were kids, and most (if not all) of the old restaurants have closed and been taken over by new businesses or have simply been demolished.

After spending too much time looking for a place they recognize, they settle for whatever they drive past next - which ends up being a little hole-in-the-wall diner. The building itself has been around since they were kids, even if it’s a different restaurant now than it had been back then. It wasn’t a place they spent a lot of time growing up, but you could get a soda or an ice cream at a price that a kid’s allowance could afford, so it wasn’t unheard of for the Losers to stop by on the occasional afternoon. Sometimes, after spending a long summer’s day at the Barrens, the whole sunburnt group of them would cram into a booth and have milkshakes, maybe even split an order of fries if they could scrounge up the money between the seven of them. Richie remembers once after he had blown all of his own allowance on comics and couldn’t afford anything from the diner, Eddie had put two long red straws in the frosty glass of his own milkshake and slid it so it sat on the table between them, sharing with Richie.

The place looks just as dingy as Richie expected. The checkered floor tiles are yellowed, and the fabric of the booths is peeling in more places than he could count.

The food isn’t good, per se, but it’s nice to have a change of scenery while they eat. Richie snags fries off of Eddie’s plate just to annoy him. And even though Eddie refuses when Richie tries convincing him to share a milkshake like that time as kids, Eddie still sticks his straw into Richie’s milkshake and steals a sip. Richie lets that slide, but just this once.

Things are going well. The fog that’s been hanging over Eddie seems to have lifted a little, even if only for now. He’s even made a few jokes at Richie’s expense, which is good and normal coming from Eddie.

And then Richie glances at the counter, where the waitress is rolling silverware and napkins into bundles. The waitress is looking at them, and averts her gaze when Richie makes eye contact. That’s not new to Richie, he assumes she’s a fan and that’s why she was staring. Fans can be a little weird if they randomly see him in public. He could see why she might think this is weird - he just comes strolling in to some run down old diner in Derry, of all places. Yeah, if anyone else of his (minor) celebrity status did that, it would be weird.

When she comes to give them the check, she addresses Richie directly, confirming his suspicions. 

“Excuse me, but are you Richie Tozier?” She asks, playing with the edge of her apron.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Could I get a photo with you, maybe?”

“Yeah, sure.” Richie shrugs, although he’s not thrilled that she’s asking while he’s trying to eat.

He stands next to her and she takes the photo on her phone, thanking him profusely as he settles back into the booth. Eddie sits in silence and watches the scene unfold.

“So…” she starts, and Richie has to fight to keep from groaning. Is she going to be one of those fans who asks a million questions, or who won’t leave him alone? He usually likes meeting fans, but those people who want to act like his best friend can be annoying.

“So what?” He prompts when she doesn’t finish her thought.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s rude of me to ask, but are you guys, like… on a date or something?”

Richie chokes on his drink.

“No, we’re not.” Richie says, still doing his best to be polite. He already shouted at one fan since coming back to Derry, he doesn’t really want to give himself a reputation for being an asshole.

“If you knew it was rude to ask, you shouldn’t have asked.” Eddie interjects. “Could you let us finish our meal now, please?”

“S-sorry,” she stammers, cheeks flushing pink as she scampers off to finish rolling her silverware behind the counter.

Richie’s skin crawls just thinking about what she’d asked. This isn’t a date, not even close. They’re just two friends having dinner. That’s normal, right? Were they doing something that gave her the impression they were a couple? The whole interaction leaves him with a feeling of unease, which he does his best to squash just like he’d squashed the butterflies Eddie put in his stomach as a kid.

Before he can think himself into a frenzy, though, Eddie softly kicks his foot beneath the table, offering a little smile when Richie kicks him back. He manages to forget about what the waitress had asked, pushing it to the back of his mind until eventually it slips from his brain altogether.

As they finish eating, they talk about how much the town has changed. Very few of the places they remember from growing up here are actually still around, and there’s fancy new buildings all over - there’s even a mall now. Richie wonders if the heart of Derry has changed, though. Despite the outward appearance of a city that has progressed and grown, Derry has always had a core of backwards, intolerant values and general shitty attitudes. He knows that was because of Pennywise’s influence, and wonders if now Derry’s heart will grow and evolve to match the city’s apparent growth. Maybe now that Pennywise is dead, both the city of Derry and the Loser's Club can start to change and grow in the ways they couldn't before.

Not that he or Eddie plan on being here to find the answer to those questions.

It’s two days later that Bev sends a picture of her and Ben to the group chat. Richie sits on the couch and stares at the photo. Bev is taking the picture, looking at the camera from the corner of her eye as she kisses Ben on the cheek. Ben is beaming, a big grin making the corners of his eyes crinkle. They both look thrilled. The text that accompanied this photo announces that Ben and Beverly are _ finally _officially together. The responses from the other Losers are a mix of ‘Congratulations’ and ‘It’s about damn time.’

Richie is happy for them, of course. God knows this has been coming for ages, and they deserve happiness wherever they can find it. It reminds him of the day they fought It, sitting in the hospital while waiting for Eddie to wake up. He’d seen them talking and laughing and known they were going to get their happy ending, and although he’d hated himself for it, he’d felt a little bitter because he was sure he wouldn’t get his own happy ending.

But he’d decided then that his happy ending didn’t have to mean Eddie loved him, it just had to mean Eddie survived. And Eddie did survive, he’s doing great - in fact, he’s in the kitchen bitching at Richie right now about how Richie stacked dishes in the dish drainer. He got his happy ending, after all, because Eddie is here and alive.

But it doesn’t feel like enough.

He feels terrible for thinking that, but it’s true. He’s over the moon that Eddie is okay after what happened, and if that’s the only miracle he ever gets in his life then he’d be fine with that, but he still wants so much more. Maybe he’s just being greedy. He wants Eddie to move to California with him, wants to have some dumb domestic life together.

But this - living in Derry while Eddie recovers - is as close as it’s going to get. He knows that. It doesn’t stop the terrible, aching longing in his chest, though.

“Did you see Bev and Haystack are official now?” He calls, cutting Eddie off in the middle of explaining that bowls go in the dish drainer upside down.

“No.”

“Yeah, Bev sent a picture to all of the Losers. It’s a good picture, they seem happy.”

“Good. It took them long enough.” Then, Eddie appears in the kitchen doorway. “I’m glad, though, really.”

“Not as glad as Ben is, I’m sure. He’s only been pining after Bev for more than half his life.” Richie says, like a man who hasn’t _ also _been pining over one person for most of his life. “Bet they take just as long to get married as they took to get together.”

“Not like they can get married now, anyway, right? Bev’s divorce is far from final, last I heard. Anyway, Richie, do I need to teach you how to use a dish drainer? If you don’t put the bowls upside down, they just hold the water.”

“That’s what bowls do, Eds.”

“I’m going to start making you dry the dishes by hand. Dish drainer privileges are reserved for me exclusively.”

“Do you really want to be so cruel to the guy who’s here to oversee your recovery?”

“Why don’t you do what you’re here for and help me change my bandages, then?”

“Eh, I don’t know.” Richie shrugs, peeling himself off the couch. “Might fuck around and let you try it on your own. Don’t you think you can get your back by yourself?”

“You know I can’t, asshole.”

This is familiar territory now, kneeling on the tile floor of the bathroom and unwrapping the bandages Eddie still has to wear. His wound is looking leagues better. Weeks ago he got the okay from the hospital staff to leave the bandages off long enough to shower, but they have to change the packing right after because it gets wet. By now, the wound is much smaller and less red than it was at first. Richie’s gotten pretty good at changing the packing, too, so the process takes a fraction of the time it used to.

“How much longer do we have to do this?” He asks, eyeing the raised scar already forming at the edges of the wound, where the skin has begun to heal. It’s pink and fresh now, and it might continue to look that way - it was a deep wound, and the scar may never fade to that faint, silvery appearance like the one on his cheek probably will.

“Not much longer. The deeper tissue should be almost done healing by now, and after that it has to stay unpacked so the skin can heal. Probably only a few more days.”

“Be honest with me. Do you not think it’s even a _ little bit _ cool to have two tough looking scars? Last time I asked, you were still married to Myra so you couldn’t appreciate the fact that ladies like cool scars.”

“Are you saying you would want a big scar on your face?”

“I mean, maybe. Nothing wrong with scars. Would I look cool?”

“I don’t care what you do to your face, you’re never going to look cool.”

“Harsh.”

They finish the back and Eddie turns so Richie can change the packing in the front. Eddie could do this part by himself, but he never does. At any time in the last few weeks Richie could have ditched, could have said, “Alright, Eds, you don’t need me for this part. Have fun!” But he hasn’t, and Eddie hasn’t made a fuss about it.

Truthfully, it’s become a weird little thing that Richie sort of likes being able to do for Eddie. He likes taking care of Eddie, he guesses. He wants to do it because he cares about him and he wants to help during a hard time. He’d probably feel the same way if Eddie was sick with the flu or whatever. The desire to protect and care for is a little embarrassing, maybe, but oh well. Perhaps he’s just a big softie at heart or something.

So he packs Eddie’s wound, marveling at how well it’s healed. It doesn’t seem like it’s been near long enough for a wound like _ that _to have healed so much. He could never forget the sight of Pennywise’s arm through Eddie’s body, and it’s astonishing how all that remains of the thing that almost killed him is a few inches of open wound and some scar tissue.

How much time is left in the recovery process? They must be nearing the end, if Eddie is as healthy as he is. Richie does the math, counting the days. It’s the 33rd day that Eddie’s been out of the hospital, and he’s supposed to be recovering for six weeks… so, 42 days. Just over a week left.

Something bitter and unpleasant curls in Richie’s chest at the thought. Nine days. Nine days, and then they’ll be going back to opposite sides of the country and will only see each other whenever the whole Losers Club gets together - and who knows how often that will be?

“Hey, Eddie, what’s your plan after this is all over? Are you going back to New York?”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ve been gone so long, I probably don’t have a job anymore, and I’m divorcing Myra who might end up getting the house, so I might have to move, but… I don’t really know what my other options would be.” Eddie shrugs, making Richie miss where he was poking the packing material with a cotton swab.

“You could…” Richie starts without thinking, and the rest of the sentence is right there on the tip of his tongue. _ “You could move in with me.” _

But he takes two seconds to think about it, and stops himself before the words can make it out.

“I could what?”

“Nothing. I was being stupid.”

“Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

Truth is, Richie doesn’t know how happy Eddie would be living with him in California. Richie tours sometimes, so there’s long periods where he’s not home at all and Eddie would be by himself. Besides, although he’s probably lost his job and potentially his home, Eddie surely has friends in New York - a life beyond his job and terrible wife. And moving across the country isn’t an easy task… just thinking of driving a U-Haul that far gives Richie a stress headache, certainly Eddie wouldn’t want to go through that hassle.

Richie doesn’t make the offer, but he wants to.

He wants a lot of things that’ll never happen, though, so what’s one more?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing this chapter: hm, at it's core Derry is still the shitty place it's always been despite being more modern. The Losers are also still the same people they were as kids, despite having grown up. Inch Resting :thinking face:


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Florist - The Fear of Losing This, The Temper Trap - Summer's Almost Gone

Richie’s dumping the dirty laundry into the washer four days later when Bill calls.

“What’s up, Big Bill?” he asks, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pours the laundry detergent.

“I was just calling to check on you guys. Nobody’s heard much and we all worry.”

“Are you worried about Eddie, or are you worried he’s gonna snap after five weeks living with me?”

“Both,” Bill chuckles, and Richie notices the lack of a stutter. “It’s really already been five weeks?”

“Yep. Just one more week and then I can blow this popsicle stand.”

“I assume Eddie’s doing well?”

“Sure is. I’ve been taking very good care of him, I’ll have you know. He barely needs me nowadays, though.”

“And how have you been, Rich?”

“Oh, little old me? I’ve been swell.” He doesn’t mention the nightmares he’s still having approximately once a week, even with Eddie sharing his bed. He doesn’t mention how twisted up his heart feels, knowing in a week he and Eddie will be parting ways. Living with Eddie has been the most peaceful Richie’s felt in a long time. The idea of going home to California and living alone again - of not having dinner with Eddie each night, of waking up without Eddie by his side - is one that makes his lungs feel like they’re being smushed.

There’s dead air on the line for a moment, and Richie starts to think the call cut out before Bill’s voice surprises him.

“Rich, don’t take this the wrong way, but are you  _ actually  _ okay?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Big Bill.” Richie says, shooting for casual but landing somewhere closer ‘barely contained panic.’

“I heard that Eddie’s getting a divorce.” Bill says, which doesn’t explain why Bill’s so worried about Richie. If anything, that means he should be more concerned about Eddie - he’s the one getting the divorce, not Richie.

“Uh… he is. I don’t get what that has to do with me, though.”

“Rich.”

Sweat breaks out across Richie’s brow.

“Yeah?”

“You need to talk to Eddie.”

“What about?” He says, as if he doesn’t know.

“Richie, come on. You love him, right?”

He actually drops his phone at that. He suspected the Losers knew, but it’s different to hear Bill say it so casually.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude!” His voice has moved solidly into ‘full blown panic’ now.

“Look, Rich, you don’t have to talk to me about this. I don’t want you to feel forced. Hell, maybe I’m way off base and there’s nothing to talk about at all. But if I’m right, will you tell Eddie? He almost died. How much more will it take to convince you?”

Richie goes quiet for long moment.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” He finally lies. “But, hypothetically, if there was, I’d… I’d consider telling him.”

“That’s all I ask. Talk to you later, man. Try to keep the rest of us up to date a little better, by the way.”

“For your information, Eddie has a phone. He can send you updates about his health. Why’s it gotta be me?”

“Well, tell  _ him _ to keep the rest of us better updated, then.”

“Get on Eddie about neglecting you guys? Sure thing. Talk to you later, Bill.”

That one phone conversation haunts Richie more than even the deadlights did. Bill’s words play on repeat in his head like some kind of awful fucking loop.  _ He almost died. How much more will it take to convince you? _

How much more  _ will  _ it take? Richie’s never been the bravest man out there, but dammit he hates feeling like a coward. Sometimes it feels like if he’s not careful the words could just slip right out, so why’s he still having such a hard time making up his mind?

He’s torn, and spends a day warring with himself about what to do. This decision seems impossible for him to make by himself, but it’s not like he can ask anyone else what they think he should do.

That’s not true. He could call any of his friends right now and ask them. The problem is that asking them for advice means admitting to them a few things, including his secret and his feelings for Eddie. That seems almost as impossible as making this decision.

Bill already knows, though. The others have to know by now, too, right? Would it be the worst thing in the world, to tell even just one of his friends the truth?

That brings him to the next hurdle: which friend does he go to for advice? He has no doubt that each one of the Losers would give him whatever advice they genuinely think is best. He’s not sure who to call when he picks up his phone, but then he dials Stan’s number as if on autopilot. That’s fine - Stan is a good guy to go to for advice. He’s smart, and has a foresight that Richie himself lacks.

And besides, he feels most comfortable admitting his secret to Stan - he loves his other friends, but Eddie, Bill, and Stan have been his closest friends for a long time. Eddie obviously isn’t an option, and Bill’s already said his piece.

He sits in the living room, alone because Eddie’s already gone to bed, listening to the phone ring and feeling a little bit silly. He’s an adult, he shouldn’t have to ask his friends for help with admitting a crush.

He doesn’t know what time it is in Atlanta, but he hopes it’s not too late. He’d hate to wake Stan up by calling. The idea that he might be calling at a bad time almost makes him hang up, but before he has the chance Stan’s voice comes over the line.

“Hi, Rich. How are you?”

“Hey, Stan,” he croaks, and cringes at how tense he sounds. “I’m good. How’re you doing? Enjoying being alive again?”

“I’m alright.”

“Awesome, that’s good to hear, man.” He takes a deep breath to calm the edge of panic creeping into his voice. “Actually, I called because, uh… I need some advice, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure, I don’t mind. What’s going on?”

Richie freezes, heart tap dancing inside his ribcage. Now that he’s here, he’s not so sure he can do this. He should just forget it.

“Richie? Are you there?”

“‘M here,” he manages. His hands shake. “So, funny thing, I… I may or may not have feelings for a friend of mine.” God, he feels like a schoolgirl admitting to having a crush, not a grown man who’s genuinely torn about what he should do.

Stanley is silent, and that makes fear coil in Richie’s chest.

“And I’ve heard from other people who think I should tell this person how I feel.”

“Okay. That seems fair, I think. Is there some reason you don’t want to tell them?”

“There’s a few reasons.”

“Rich, you’re being really vague. Who is this person? Why don’t you want to tell them? Without knowing any details, I can’t help you.”

“Well, it’s… uhh. It’s Eddie.” Richie mutters.

Stan makes an affirmative noise, but that’s all. That might be worse than if he’d reacted badly.

“And why don’t you want to tell him?”

“Well, he’s married, first of all.”

“He’s getting a divorce, though.”

“He’s straight.”

“So? Even if he is, don’t you think he’d want to know?”

“I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, or make things weird.”

“Richie, Eddie’s been your friend for  _ how long _ _?_ Do you really think this would make things weird? If things were going to get weird, it would’ve happened a long time ago. Probably around the first time you made a joke about sleeping with his mom.” Stan stops for a moment. “Look, Rich, I understand why you’d be hesitant to tell him, but you know he’s not going to think badly of you, right? Even if he doesn’t feel the same way about you, he’s still your friend and this won’t change that.”

“Yeah, of course I know that.” Richie’s voice wobbles a bit. “I guess I’m just scared, man.”

“I understand. But you’ve faced worse, right? It’s just Eddie. He’s nothing to be scared of. Rich, I know it’s hard to be honest about this sort of thing, but I think you should tell him. I don’t just say that, either. We both know Eddie well enough to know whatever worst case scenario you’re imagining isn’t going to happen. Eddie is an understanding person. If he doesn’t feel the same way - and you don’t know that he doesn’t - then he’s not the type to make a big deal out of it.”

“You’re right, I know.”

“And besides, Richie, I think you’d probably feel better if you weren’t keeping such a big secret.”

Richie tugs at a loose thread on his shirt. “Yeah. Been keeping a couple of secrets for a while, it would be nice to get them off my chest.”

“I couldn’t tell you if the feeling is mutual, but I think you should be honest with him anyway."

“Alright. Thanks Stan. I’ll try.” Richie sighs.

“Good luck, man. I’m sure it’ll work out.”

Richie wishes he could be sure of that, too, but he can’t quite find it in himself.

He lays awake in bed for a while that night, trying in vain to make sense of all the thoughts bouncing around in his head. Bill and Stan are both right, of course. He should tell Eddie the truth. This may not be a good time, but there will never really be a good time and he’s already waited much too long. Eddie probably would want to know, and Richie himself hates keeping secrets like this.

He thinks about the feeling of panic he’d gotten when the waitress had mistaken he and Eddie for a couple the other day. What was that fear he’d felt?

He doesn’t think the question would have bothered him if they  _ had  _ been on a date, and the idea of doing things like holding Eddie’s hand in public doesn’t make him squirm if it’s under the assumption that Eddie knows the truth. The perception of them as a couple isn’t what got to him. He was afraid the question would clue Eddie in to the truth of Richie’s feelings.

There’s an easy solution to that fear, of course: bite the bullet and confess to Eddie. That lines up with what Stan had said - he’d probably feel better if he wasn’t keeping secrets.

He looks at Eddie’s peaceful, sleeping face and feels a weight settle on his chest. The faint freckles on his cheeks, his bangs falling into his face, the relaxed slope of his eyebrows - it all worms it’s way directly into Richie’s heart. Laying there in the dark of the room, he wonders which would be worse: going home having never been honest with Eddie, or being honest and facing the negative consequences he fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stan is a hard character for me to write, but he seems like the kind of person who'd really think about the advice he gives. Like he seems like he'd really try to understand Richie's concerns and consider the possible outcomes, you know?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coconut Records - West Coast, The Killers - Read My Mind (this is one of my favorite songs for Reddie, highly recommend)

“Eds, man, do you need help?” Richie asks, watching Eddie dragging his bags through the doorway. He’s all but fully recovered by now, but Richie is still worried.

“I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure? You aren’t supposed to lift anything heavy while recovering, right?”

“I think I can carry a few bags, believe it or not.”

“Hm,” Richie pretends to think about it. “Nah, I don’t believe it.”

The two of them cram all of Eddie’s things into the trunk of the car, and then they themselves pile into the vehicle.

“Alright, here we go. Got everything? I don’t wanna turn around because you forgot something.”

“I have everything, Rich. Let’s go. I want to get there early.”

Eddie is leaving today. Technically his recovery isn’t over until tomorrow, but he’s catching a flight back to New York this evening. Derry doesn’t have an airport, so they have to make the trip to Bangor, where Richie will drop him off at the airport. Richie himself isn’t leaving until tomorrow - hooray for making what feels like a million trips back and forth between Derry and Bangor.

And Richie still hasn’t found the courage to tell Eddie how he feels. Time has run out. He’s missed his chance, just like he missed it when they were kids. Maybe that’s just how it was meant to be. In the same way he thinks he was meant to fall for Eddie, maybe it’s just always been fate that he and Eddie won’t end up together.

“Richie, are you alright? You’re being really quiet.”

“I’m great! Just can’t wait to go home tomorrow.”

Eddie groans.

“I wish I could say the same.”

“What? Not looking forward to getting out of Derry?”

“Oh, no, don’t get me wrong. I’m fucking thrilled to be leaving Derry. Just not really excited about going back to New York.”

“Really? Why, man?”

“Is that even a question?” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Why would I be?”

Richie goes quiet for a second. Yeah, of course Eddie’s not looking forward to what’s waiting for him back home.

“Well, just remember. You’re doing the right thing, even if it’s tough.”

“Yeah,” Eddie stares at Richie from the passenger’s seat, making the hair on the back of Richie’s neck prickle.

“What’s up? Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry, asshole, just was amazed by how awful you look.”

Richie snorts. “Me, too, pal. Everyone else looks great and I aged like milk.”

Eddie laughs, and Richie’s stomach drops. After this, when will he get to hear that laugh again? Who knows when he and Eddie will see each other in person next.

“It’s funny because it’s not you,” he grins. “See how funny it’d be if you were the one who looked like a bowl of cereal that’s been left out in the sun.”

“You look fine, Rich,” Eddie says, and Richie can hear a little smile in his voice.

“Oh, was that a genuine compliment from Mr. Edward Kaspbrak? How rare.”

They stop for dinner on the way to the airport, eating fast food in the car and making stupid comments. Richie is in an okay mood, all things considered - he can’t do anything to stop Eddie from leaving, after all, so he spends the trip trying to make the most of the time left, pulling as many laughs and sarcastic comments from Eddie as he can.

The last six weeks have been dreamlike and peaceful, and Richie has been happy. He’d be lying if he said that he doesn’t wish he could continue to live the little, domestic sort of life he and Eddie have created. But in the end, he has to return to the real world. The dream is over. They have lives to get back to.

He helps Eddie get his luggage out of the car at the airport, the late summer air warm on their skin as Richie watches Eddie struggle to hold all the bags.

“You need help carrying those inside?”

“No, I’ve got it, Rich.”

“Alright.” Richie’s palms sweat. “I’m gonna head back, then, I think. Gotta get my own shit packed and get some damn sleep, my flight is first thing tomorrow.”

Eddie nods, lips pressed into a thin line. “Have a safe trip, man.”

“Back to Derry, or back to the California?”

“Back to Derry. I hope your flight to California is stressful and dangerous.” Eddie rolls his eyes. “Both, you dick.”

Richie looks at Eddie, standing there next to the car, and wonders how he ever did this ‘goodbye’ thing as a teenager.

“See you later, Rich.” Eddie says, placing his bags on the ground long enough to wrap Richie in a hug. “Thanks for staying with me in piece of shit Derry. Thanks for helping me with Myra.”

“No problem.” Richie squeezes hard, and even though he still can’t find the words or the courage to convey everything he’s feeling, some part of him hopes the hug will do it for him. Eddie hugs him back just as hard, and Richie hides his face in Eddie’s shoulder and tries to commit the moment to memory. It’s not like he’ll never see Eddie again, but the sadness pressing on him doesn’t care about that.

Eddie steps back after a long moment, and Richie ruffles his hair.

“Alright, Eddie Spaghetti. Try not to do anything to get yourself killed, would you? I won’t be there to save your ass this time.”

“I don’t think that’ll be a problem, with no clown trying to stab me. Besides, I got stabbed because I saved you from the deadlights, so really you’re the one who needs to be more careful.” Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Richie thinks for just a second that he can see his own emotions reflected in Eddie’s face.

“Have a good flight. Try not to annoy the flight attendants too much.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, and then he walks inside, waving over his shoulder and dragging his luggage behind him. Richie watches until he’s out of sight, then gets back in the car and starts for Derry, his heart in his throat the whole time.

The drive back leaves Richie alone with his thoughts, which is something he’s not thrilled about. Could he have stayed at the airport and waited together with Eddie for his plane? Yes. But his flight tomorrow really is early, and he’s gotta pack his shit and clean the house up before he leaves. He could have stayed, but he needs the time to prepare for his own departure - and staying would only have made saying goodbye that much harder.

The phantom moon is hanging high in the soft, hazy sky by the time he drives over the Kissing Bridge. He’s struck by a memory, a little fuzzy at the edges but poignant nonetheless, and pulls over on the side of the bridge.

He remembers thirteen-year-old Richie carving a pair of initials into the wood of this bridge. It was after the Losers got in the fight outside Neibolt that summer. He’d been alone, and frightened, and as confident as he liked to act, he’d felt every bit like the lost, uncertain kid he was. He’d carved the initials because he had to tell _ someone. _ His feelings had been huge and newly realized, and they’d been far too much for him to contain. Amid the fear and the confusion of that summer, he’d found love, and to this day he isn’t sure which terrifies him more. He’d carved them, praying he hadn’t been followed, heart hammering, and had raced home as soon as he’d finished - because although he’d wanted the feelings to be _ out, _ he didn’t want anyone to actually _ know. _

Sitting here now, he thinks of the events that led him to this point - the fight with It, the sickening sight of Eddie’s blood on the cave floor, the terrifying day spent in the hospital, how twisted up he’d felt knowing Eddie might die. Then he thinks further back, to all the little moments that brought them together as kids, and all the tiny things that made him fall in love. He spends a long time lingering on the memory of all the stupid things he’d say just to rile Eddie up, how he always antagonized Eddie more than the others just to get his attention; all the dusky evenings outside the Kaspbrak house, saying goodbye after a day of hiding out in the clubhouse; the countless times he beat Eddie at Street Fighter and how Eddie always agreed to play even though Richie was sure to win. He remembers moments spent sharing comics, bickering over stupid shit, and teasing each other. There were rainy days, when Sonia Kaspbrak insisted Eddie would catch a cold if he went out, so Richie stayed inside with Eddie when he’d have rather been splashing in the puddles outdoors. He remembers having lunch in the school cafeteria and kicking each other under the table, playing tabletop games that dissolved into tossing pieces at each other, having snowball fights in the winter and bike races through town in the spring, going together to buy new comics and the few times he walked with Eddie to get his inhaler from Mr. Keene at the pharmacy, the days he listened to Eddie vent about his mom, and how his heart always soared when he made Eddie smile.

All these memories play in his mind, a movie reel full of nostalgia; full of joy and sorrow, fear and love. He thinks of these things, and another wriggling little thought comes in uninvited - he should have told Eddie the truth ages ago. He should have admitted his feelings long before they even left Derry as teenagers. Part of him wants to be honest, wanted to be honest even back then.

He sits in the car, heart heavy, staring at the myriad of names and letters carved into the bridge, and recalls what he’d seen in the deadlights. In that awful vision, he hadn’t been afraid when he’d come here. He remembers that.

In the here and now, he’s still scared.

Is that it, then? Would it take Eddie actually dying to make Richie face these fears? Is he that much of a coward? Eddie is alive and well, sitting in the Bangor airport right now, knowing nothing about how Richie feels. Even knowing what the end to their fight with It could have been, Richie is still driving his miserable, lonely ass back to Derry, having settled for keeping everything inside until… until what? Until he dies? Until something else terrible shakes him up enough to realize he’s waited too long already?

That’s not what he wants. He wants Eddie to come back to California with him. He wants to wake up in the same bed, and watch awful movies together, and have dinner while making rude jokes. And if that isn’t an option, he wants to at least _ know _that it’s not - he doesn’t want to live the rest of his life wondering if things could’ve been different. He doesn’t want to spend another minute holding onto these feelings, keeping them hidden away like some sort of shameful, damning thing. He’s not ashamed of how he feels, and he’s had just about enough of the fear making him passive and complacent.

Maybe he missed his opportunity to be honest. He had plenty of chances over the last six weeks, and he ignored them all. That doesn’t mean he can’t make his own opportunity, right? There will never be a good time to admit to someone you’ve been in love with them for most of your life, but doing it at a bad time is better than not doing it at all.

He was honest about the nightmares and nothing bad happened. He was honest with Stan about his feelings for Eddie and nothing bad happened. He can be vulnerable one more time. He can be honest with Eddie.

Hands shaking on the steering wheel, he takes a deep breath and turns the car around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's this? Richie learning its ok to talk about things instead of masking it with humor? in my fic??


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter lives up to expectations! Posting it is a little bittersweet.  
The Cure - Just Like Heaven, Ben Platt - Grow as we Go
> 
> (Here's the full playlist for this fic in Youtube, by the way: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8qjPPGmFz7hobFqj9TbD8QDNrYHUyuYf)

Richie tries not to run through the airport, but he does speedwalk. He might be too late, and the idea nags at him the whole time. The airport is a big place, how easy would it be for him to completely overlook Eddie? Or maybe Eddie’s plane has already started boarding? _ Or _Eddie could be at his gate, beyond a security checkpoint that Richie can’t get through because he doesn’t have a boarding pass. All of these things are awful, and if he could stop for two seconds he could at least call Eddie and ask where he is - but he’s not using his brain at the moment, and the idea doesn’t occur to him.

Luckily he spots a familiar head of brown hair near a window. He breaks into a jog even though he’d been trying not to run.

“Eddie!”

“Richie? What the fuck are you doing here, man? Did I forget something after all?”

“No. No you didn’t forget anything.” Richie comes to a stop in front of his friend, a pit in his stomach and a fluttering feeling in his chest. He grabs Eddie’s hands, his own hands trembling as he does so. “You can’t leave yet.”

“What? Why?” Eddie’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion. He’s looking at Richie like he’s gone crazy - and maybe he has. Still, Eddie makes no effort to remove his hands from Richie’s grasp.

“I’m in love with you.” Richie says, in one rushed breath. His heart drums a frantic beat inside his ribs and he knows his palms are clammy.

“What?”

“I carved our initials on the Kissing Bridge once.” Richie blurts, which only seems to confuse Eddie more. But now that’s he started talking, he can’t stop. “I want you to move in with me. My apartment is big enough, and I, uh. I tour sometimes, so there might be a few weeks here and there that you’re home alone, but… I don’t want to go back to living separate lives. I know we’ll see each other when the Loser’s Club gets together, but how often will that be? I should’ve said something to you ages ago, and then you left for college and we forgot about each other for thirty years, and then you almost died. I don’t want to miss my chance again and wait thirty more years to find another opportunity. We’ll be seventy! That’s _ way _too late! I don’t want to live my whole life regretting never having the damn balls to tell you the truth.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything. For a second he continues giving Richie the same confused look: brows furrowed, mouth turned down slightly. Then his expression smooths over into something Richie can’t read - or maybe he’s just not brave enough to read it because he fears what he might find there.

“Richie…” he says at last, speaking slowly. “You… you came all the way back here to tell me that?”

“Yeah.” He’s starting to feel stupid now, and that feeling grows with each passing second. Why was it so important that Eddie know the truth, anyway? He can’t remember. Fear curls it’s long fingers down his throat and settles in the pit of his stomach, a cold and nauseating feeling. Shame follows soon after in a great wave, taking up residence on his chest, crushing his lungs and making his skin crawl.

For one heart stopping moment, Richie thinks Eddie is about to ask him to explain himself and he’s sure he’s going to be killed upon impact. As soon as the words connect with his ears he’ll die of embarrassment and grief.

But then Eddie smiles a bit, and that little smile takes root and blossoms into a full grin.

“You waited until now to say something?” Eddie asks, an edge of sweet and lighthearted laughter in his voice. “You’ve had six weeks! You didn’t have to rush back here, either, you could have called me! Even if you had decided you wanted to say it after I’d left, phones work cross country, you know.”

“I know.” Richie says, somewhere between laughing and crying. His own tentative smile begins to form. “But I wanted to say it in person.”

“You’ve had six weeks, Jesus Christ! What if I’d already been on the plane?”

“I don’t know! You think I planned this?”

Eddie laughs, and then he squirms his hands out of Richie’s grip so he can grab Richie’s face. “God, you’re the fucking worst.” He says, eyes bright, and Richie has one moment to think about what’s happening before Eddie’s kissing him and he doesn’t care to think about anything else.

“I love you, too, asshole.” Eddie whispers afterwards.

When Richie’s brain catches up to the whirlwind of events, he remembers how he’d spent an agonizing amount of time as a teen thinking about kissing Eddie, and some stupid childish form of joy erupts in his chest, driving out the suffocating, cold nerves he’d felt before. He stares at Eddie - one hand still cradling Richie’s face, backlit by warm orange light from the sunset outside the window, Richie’s own joy mirrored in his eyes, and knows he’s never been more in love in his life. He remembers how he’d held Eddie’s face the same way Eddie is holding his face now, back in It’s lair, when he’d been certain Eddie was dead, and how in the cave he’d seen Eddie backlit by the glow of the Deadlights like he’s backlit now - but he only thinks about the similarities in these scenes long enough to know he much prefers _ this _scene.

“You don’t have to move in with me.” He finally speaks. “I mean, I loved you when we were thousands of miles apart and when I didn’t even remember you existed. I’ll still love you if we have to go different ways.”

“Yeah? Still gonna love me if you have to listen to me complain about living in California all the time?”

“Yeah, I think I can manage. Think you’ll still love me when you see the mess my apartment is?”

“I don’t know, Rich. Guess it depends on how bad it is.” Eddie deadpans, but the effect is ruined because he’s still grinning. “I already checked my bags! You have the worst timing. After I get them, you’d better help me carry them to the car.”

“You’re not getting on the plane?”

“No, dude! What… why would I get on the plane?”

“You’re… coming back to California with me, then?”

“No. I’m just going to stay in Derry. Yes, I’m moving in with you!”

Eddie insists they stop at the Kissing Bridge on the way back to the house. It’s dark by now, so Richie searches the worn wood by the light of his phone, looking for those familiar old letters.

Eddie gazes at the faded initials for a while before he speaks.

“I saw this sometimes, riding my bike through here. Part of me kind of wondered if it was you - kind of hoped it was.”

“I should have told you back then, but I was so scared. To be honest, I’m _ still _a little bit scared.” Richie admits, just a whisper in the dark night. There are other people in his life who’s reactions he can’t predict, and although he’s overcome one hurdle - confessing to Eddie - there are more down the line that he has to face.

“Me, too, Rich. But that’s okay. You’re braver than you think.” Eddie takes Richie’s hand in his, offering a reassuring squeeze. Richie squeezes back. Maybe it _ is _ okay that he’s afraid. There’s a hopeful feeling in his chest that he hasn’t felt in a very long time - and he thinks maybe he won’t be afraid forever. Things are easier with Eddie at his side, and he thinks they can outgrow this fear together. He doesn’t have to face every challenge at once, and he’s not facing them alone.

They find a knife in the glove compartment of the car, and they redo the carving together, kneeling on the bridge in the mild summer evening.

“I can’t believe you had feelings for me even way back then.” Eddie says as they clamber back into the car.

“Yeah,” Richie shrugs. “Felt like I couldn’t tell anyone, but I sure as fuck couldn’t keep it to myself - hence the carving.”

“You were such a sap,” Eddie teases. “You carved our initials into the Kissing Bridge, oh my God.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who saw the carving and hoped I did it, so who’s the real sap?”

“You!”

“I don’t think so, Eddie Spaghetti.” Richie pauses. “If you hoped it was me, then that means you had feelings for me back then, too!”

“Yeah, I did.” Eddie groans, rolling his eyes. “You were annoying as hell but I guess you grew on me.”

“Like a rash, baby.”

“That’s so fucking gross, why would you compare yourself to a _ rash _? Stop pinching my cheek! Hands on the wheel, asshole!”

Beneath the bridge, a turtle meanders aimlessly through the dark water as Richie’s rental car disappears into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thaaat's all, folks!! Thank you all for reading! I really appreciate all the support you guys have given me on this! This was my first fic in this fandom & it's been a wip for five-six months which is a long time for me spend on a piece. I have a hard time with longer fics & making plots, and since I'm still so new to ao3 I was pretty nervous to post this. Everyone's comments & kudos have been wonderful and super motivating, so HUGE thanks for supporting my lil' fix-it fic. Ily!!


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